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I iC/a^k&^ J), /V.C.] 

IlIZZIE MAITLAND. 


i 


EDITED BY 


O. A. BROWNSON. 




NEW YORK: 


E. DUNIGAN & BROTHER, 
[JAMES B. KIRKER^ 

371 BEOADWAY. 


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Li 


40 ^ 


Ekteked, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by 
JAMES B. KIKKEE, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
Southern District of Now York. 


9 



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PKEFACE. 




In coming before the public with this little volume, 
the Authoress does so with many misgivings as to 
the success of her enterprise. A little more than 
two years ago, she saw in Mr. Brownson’s Review, 
what she interpreted as something like the expres- 
sion of a desire, on the part of its learned editor, 
to see some Catholic stories from authors, who, 
born in this country, understand better, because 
they have themselves felt them, the wants of the 
people, than those who have never themselves ex- 
perienced them. 

Without any serious intention of attempting to 
supply this demand ; but partly for pastime, partly 


iv 


PREFACE. 


for an experiment, she commenced a little story 
intended to give some simple explanation of a few 
of the dogmas of the Catholic Church, and only 
those which are most frequently assailed and mis- 
represented. The story grew under her hands, 
until it assumed its present form, and in much fear 
and trembling she sends it forth, hoping that some 
honest soul, seeking the truth, may find something 
to assist in clearing away doubt and embarrass- 
ment. 

She knows well that the same thing has often 
been done before, in a much more able and finished 
style; but it sometimes happens that the simple 
language of a child, or an unlettered person, will 
give a clearer idea of a plain fact, than the most 
elaborate explanation of a learned man. There is 
hardly an old woman in the land, who could not 
make a child comprehend the meaning of net-work 
for instance, while Dr. Johnson, wit|i all his eru- 
dition, failed to do any thmg but involve the idea 
in such obscurity, that it would require the skill 
of a magician to make any child understand what 
it is, from his definition. 


PREFACE. 


V 


While the Authoress deprecates the critics, and 
appeals to the charity of good Catholics, she will 
be amply repaid if, from the whole mass, a single 
ray of truth shall find its way to the depths of one 
earnest heart. 








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1 


INTRODUCTION. 


When the author had proceeded about half way in her 
story, she read me what she had written. I was so 
well pleased with it, that I urged her to continue and 
complete it, promising her, that, with her permission, 
I would stand its godfather before the public. It prob- 
l:ably is no advantage to her that I keep my promise, 

! and add my name as editor instead of hers as author. 

I have not abused my office of editor. The book is 
: published as it came to me in manuscript, with the excep- 
i tion of two or three slight verbal corrections, and the ad- 
j dition of a single note to a passage in which the author 
had given an opinion which she has the right to hold, and 
1 which many excellent Catholics do hold, as if it were 
i Catholic doctrine, and a very different opinion on the 
5 same subject were not also permitted to be held. I do 
not like tampering with authors. I wish every one who 
has a genuine word to say, should say it in his own way. 

I have myself read Lizzie Maitland with interest and 
' pleasure. I do not pretend that it is the greatest and most 
attractive story of the kind ever written, or that it is so 
i artistically perfect that an ill-natured critic can find noth- 
! ing in it to carp at. It is evident to the reader that the 

i 


X 


INTRODUCTION. 


be out of the world as out of the fashion. The novel is 
at present the reigning fashion, and Catholics as well as 
others must conform to it, if they wish to catch the popu- i 
lar mind, and influence the popular heart. 

We need, even more than is commonly thought, a 
popular Catholic literature, — a literature which is adapted I 
to the wants of those who will not read grave didactic ' 
works, who are too light, too gay, too frivolous, to read j 
purely spiritual or devotional works. We have a rich and | 
living literature amply sufficient for those who take life , 
seriously, understand its true worth and aim ; but these, i 
after all, are not the majority in any community, nor i 
those for whom we should feel the greatest solicitude. ' 
The devout, the members of pious Confraternities, Living j 
Eosaries, St. Vincent de Paul societies, and the like, are i 
well provided for, and are in little danger ; but our solid- ! 
tude should be chiefly awakened for those who have the ' 
faith indeed, and do not dream of abandoning their ' 
Church, but who have no special vocation to pious practices ! 
or a devout life. The gayety of youth, the play of animal | 
spirits, or the vanities of the world sway them, and ren- ' 
der every thing serious and didactic distasteful to them. | 
These are those who need looking after. “ They that are i 
whole need not the physician, but they that are sick.” i 
These, I apprehend, constitute the majority of our : 
youth of both sexes, and I suppose always will. We may i 
regret it, but we can hardly prevent it. We cannot make * 
them saints, but we may perhaps prevent the majority of | 
them from being utterly lost. Unhappily, they are at I 
present precisely those among us least; cared for, and least 
benefited by our didactic and pious books. We want a ' 
popular literature for them, not too grave or didactic in 


INTRODUCTION. 


xi 


tone, light, graceful, attractive, which will catch their at- 
tention, please their imaginations, interest their affections, 
and give them now and then a thought which will linger 
in their memory, and come up as food for meditation in 
those moments of pause in their vanity and of serious re- 
flection, which come to all. 

Especially do we want books which, in a pleasing and 
unostentatious manner, will make the young familiar with 
their religion in those points on which they are most 
likely to misapprehend it, or to find it assailed. A story 
like the one which follows, will refresh the memory of 
many of our well instructed Catholic youth, and throw 
new associations around the faith and worship to ■which 
they are more or less indifferent. The more we have of 
such stories, well adapted to all tastes and tempers, the 
better. 

These little works, half secular in their character, in- 
tended to furnish innocent amusement rather than instruc- 
tion, falling into the hands of non-Catholics, often become 
the occasion of awakening thoughts and reflections which, 
with the grace of God, result in conversion to the true 
faith. In this view of the case I am disposed to encour- 
age the production of lighter Catholic works, and to give 
them a cordial welcome, whenever they contain nothing 
positively hurtful. Ho matter if they are not always origi- 
nal, no matter how great their variety, or various their 
degrees of merit, each will have something good for some 
mind, and perhaps he the occasion of preventing the fall 
of some one, or of restoring a soul to God. 

The little work I here introduce to the public stands in 
no need of this defence of Catholic literature. It carries 
its own defence and recommendation with it. It is the 


xii 


INTRODUCTION. 


author’s first attempt, and gives promise of greater and 
better things hereafter ; but, though not free from defects 
incident to inexperience, it is sound and healthy in tone, 
and contains scenes, passages, and descriptions, wliich our 
most practised writers would be happy to have written. 

With these introductory remarks, I leave the work to 
make its own friends, and to find its own place in our 
popular Catholic literature, which needs all the contribu- 
tions that are made to it. 


THE EDITOK. 



LIZZIE MAITLAND. 



CHAPTER I. 

“ Lizzie ! Lizzie ! where are you ? 
Come in, and take your book ! ” was 
the rather impatient command of Mrs. 
Maitland to her little daughter, as 
she sat on the door-step one beauti- 
ful morning, feeding some pet chick- 
ens. The child was enjoying the fra^ 
grance of the balmy breeze, that lifted 
the sunny locks from her fair brow, as it floated 
through the lovely valley where her father’s house 
was situated; her eyes were wandering over the 
green meadows, and following the stream of water 
that glittered in the sunshine ; her young heart 
was full of something, she did not understand what 
it was, that made it throb with such delicious sen- 


2 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


sations, and she did not dream of defining them, as 
she listened to the gentle ripple of its waters. 

Oh ! what a lovely scene it was, aild no wonder 
the child’s heart yearned to hound away and sport 
under those dear old trees, bent and gnarled, 
stretching out their broad branches, and casting 
those deep bewitching shadows on the bosom of 
the stream, that seemed inviting one to dive down ! 
to find what there could be so fascinating in the ? 
bottom of that cool, delicious-looking pool. Poor 
Lizzie found it impossible to resist the temptation, i 
whenever she could steal away unperceived, to pull | 
off her shoes and stockings and wade in the shallow ? 
parts, and although she felt guilty and conscience- 
smitten afterwards, when she looked at her wet j 
and draggled dress, and tried to feel very sorry j 
when they told her how naughty it was, and that ! 
she would never be a lady — nothing — as her old 
nurse said, but a Tomboy — how she wondered 
what that could be like, whether it had horns — how 
it could look — and the poor ^hild could not help 
thinking it was a very hard thing to be born to be 
a lady, and secretly thought it much better to be 
poor, so that she could be allowed the freedom 
that the children of her father’s tenants enjoyed. 
Their mothers did not make them come into the 
house such pleasant days, and wear shoes and 
stockings, and sit on a chair to pore over a book, 
and that book so dreaded — she could not think of 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


3 


it without a secret shivering — ^it was a little primer 
containing the multiplication table. 

“ Dear me, what shall I do with that child ! ” 
said good, busy, bustling Mrs. Maitland. “ She 
will never be any thing but a coarse, romping 
girl.” — ^Ah ! little Lizzie! how were you misunder- 
stood — you, you coarse 1 with all the magic of na- 
ture stirring your young soul, purifying and pre- 
paring it for the battle of life. — “Her cousin Fanny, 
who is no older, can sew and read, and she behaves 
herself like a little lady, and has no taste or desire 
whatever for such romping plays. I really do be- 
lieve she thinks herself persecuted, because she has 
to wear nice clothes like a gentleman’s daughter ; 
for I heard her saying to a little duck the other 
day — ‘You are a happy little thing! you don’t 
have to wear shoes and stockings, and a nice dress, 
but can go and wade and swim in the pretty brook 
whenever you like ; nobody says to you — “Naughty 
duck, you have spoiled your nice new dress.” Ah ! 
how happy you are, to have such nice soft green 
featfters, and no shoes to pinch your toes.’ — ^And 
I verily do believe, she would rather sit perched 
upon the crooked limb of that old tree, overhang- 
ing the stream, than in the finest parlor ever was 
seen — I cannot understand that child.” 

“ My dear Mary,” said Mr. Maitland, who 
stood within the house, “ there is nothing so very 
strange in that, and as the stream is not deep in 


4 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


any part of it, there can be no danger ; and, my 
dear wife, are you not something too strict, with 
our poor little Lizzie ? She is scarcely seven years 
old, and you seem to expect from her all the steadi- 
ness and maturity of twelve ; have a little patience, 
she is an affectionate child, and if you don’t check 
them too rudely, her own warm affections and 
good sense will bring all right in the end.” 

Lizzie’s ears were wide open, and she heard it 
all — and she understood this much, and it lifted a 
great load from her heart, that her father did not 
think her such a very naughty girl as she had fre- 
quently persuaded herself to believe, and to con- 
fess that she was ; although the poor child had 
never very clearly perceived how, or why, it could 
be so naughty to love to run about the fields, and 
gather the wold flowers : scrambling up the banks 
after the hare-bells that grew high among the rocks, 
was worse — that she could comprehend, for she was 
m danger of falling, and she did frequently tear 
her dress, and she was too a^t to forget whether 
it was her old, or new pair of shoes, that shq had 
on ; the matter of the dress and the shoes, was 
clearer to her comprehension. 

And then there was the good cousin Fanny, per- 
petually held up as a model ; it is a wonder that 
the little heart was not filled with jealousy and en- 
vy. All tills indiscriminate praise might have sown 
the seeds of rancor and hate, to rankle there, long 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


5 


years after, costing many tears and efforts to up- 
root them, — but it did not, thanks to the gentle 
voice, and holy teachings of nature, whispered in 
the perfumes of the wild flowers, the singing of 
the birds, and the murmur of the distant waterfall. 

Lizzie loved her cousin Fanny ; but she did not 
i so heartily enjoy her society as she did the less 
r proper behaved children of her father’s gardener, 
W'hose big son made her a water-wheel at the little 
dam in the stream, and who, with his sisters, 
helped her to drive the ducks into the artificial 
pond, made by their united efforts. 

Lizzie admired, but could not imitate her beau- 
tiful sampler, and the very small stitches in her 
patchwork bedquilt — all neatly sewed and finished, 

' ready for the last grand scene, the quilting party, 
when elderly and grave matrons were to assemble, 
to complete it — and sound the praises of the nice 
industrious child, who had made a whole quilt all 
by herself. Fanny had already many times re- 
peated to her, “ that Aunt Mary had invited the 
ladies to come, and that she was to have a seat at 
the frame, and to wear her new silver thimble.” — 
' Poor Lizzie listened, and sighed, and expressed 
f over again her admiration, but her ineffectual at- 
tempts to imitate it plunged her in despair ; her 
thimble never would stay on her finger, it was al- 
: ways too large or too small, — the patches never 
would come even ; one, by some mysterious pro- 
1 * 


6 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


cess or other, would never fail to be longer than 
its fellow, and the stitches would' either be piled up 
in a lieap, in some desperate attempt to obey the 
injunction she received, to make them small and 
close together, or else, they would run rambling 
over the patch, like a rail fence, as her mother 
used to declare. 

Poor mother ! you did not, in the midst of the 
bustle and busy usefulness of your daily life-cares, 
understand the young dreamer at your side, nor 
the pangs that rent that unenvying little heart at 
your reproofs ; you knew none of the many, many 
resolves “ to be good like cousin Fanny, and not 
to vex mamma again.” 

But with the temptation of the beautiful green 
fields, and that bewitching stream of water for ever 
before her, she had many downfalls and humilia- 
tions, and often forgot these resolutions. — “ Oh, if 
my papa only lived in a city as cousin Fanny’s papa 
used to, perhaps I should finc\ it easier to be good 
then — I should not be half as happy, I know.” The 
poor child sighed, for she remembered well the 
only time she had ever visited New York — she was 
about four years old — she felt half suffocated by 
the close crowded streets, and, oppressed by the 
smoke and gloom, had cried to be taken home from 
such a gloomy place, until she fell into disgrace 
with her grand young relations, who conceived a 
great dislike for “the country-bred little thing.” 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


n 


She looked up at the high walls, and asked her 
mother who made them, and then at the sky above, 
and asked, who made that ; and when told God 
made the sky and the beautiful trees, and that He 
dwelt in heaven, she thought He made much pret- 
tier things than man, and wondered which heaven 
was most like, the city, or the country where her 
dear papa was, until she fell asleep, with her tiny 
hands full of dandelions, which she had gathered 
on the only patch of green she could find, in the 
yard where the house linen was dried — and a cu- 
rious jumble in her little head, of stars, blue sky, 
brick houses, chimney tops — and dreamed she was 
stolen away from her dear papa, and dragged oflf 
to be a chimney sweep, and awakened in a great 
! fright, just as she felt she was going to be suffo- 
cated, in a chimney too narrow for even her very 
slender figure. 

But after this long digression we must return 
to our little dreamer. 

As she rose to obey her mother’s call, she 
turned with a yearning heart once more to that 
I beautiful landscape, drinking in the whole, with 
one fond, earnest gaze; and in long, long years 
after, that lovely picture still was imprinted on her 
heart; even the perfume of the morning breeze 
seemed yet to linger there. 

Often had she wished she were a little lamb, 
that she might stay out in the lovely sunshine, or 


8 


LIZZIE MAITLAOT). 


lie down on the soft grass, in the tempting shade 
of that tall tree. 

As she turned her hack on the fair scene, there 
settled on her heart such a gloom ! Could it have 
be'en a foreshadowing of the coming events of af- 
ter life — the griefs, disappointments, of a whole 
lifetime crowded into a momentary shadow ? 

Little did her mother dream what a bias would 
be given to all her future life, by her efforts to 
crowd into her tender mind, then so jDecuUarly un- 
fitted to receive it, that luckless multiplication 
table. 

Lizzie obeyed her mother’s call, but felt herself 
oppressed, a kind of victim seated in a great arm- 
chair before a mndow, where she could still hear 
the murmur of the brook, see the lambs, and hear 
them bleat ; how could she help watching that 
busy bee, humming about, its little thighs laden 
with the spoils of the sweetest flowers ? — how 
could she realize that twict^ two make four, and 
twice three make six, and twice four make eight ? 
Ah! no — to her they were only a frightful long 
column of odious figures — and the little hymn she 
had just learned came into her head to complete 
her distraction, and who can wonder that 

“ Gathering honey all the day 
From every opening flower,” 

seemed an infinitely more fascinating occupation 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


9 


is jthan the one to which she was doomed ; and then 
she could not help thinking how nice it must he to 
rg have wings to rest when you are tired, and oh ! 
3 how nice to fly ! She wished she had wings — her 
book was forgotten, and with her elbows resting 
iij on the window sill, and her eyes fixed on the de- 
; ilicious blue sky, she thought how lovely heaven 
cl imust be, and to wonder, if she had wings, she 
a could fly thither. 

“ Lizzie ! Lizzie ! what are you doing ? Is that 
!i the way to learn your multiplication table ? Your 
Icousin Fanny knows it all! ” sounded in her ears, 
1 land brought her back to a sense of her humilia- 
r tion. There she was, a great girl seven years old, 
IT' couldn’t sew decently, could read only tolerably 
r (she could write better than Fanny, there was a 
: little consolation in that), but then came the morti- 
a||fying reflection that Fanny was so much more of a 
> I lady, could sew so nicely, and nurse said, she was 
lino “ tomboy,” always folded her things neatly, 
-and laid them away in the drawer — did not chew 
vi [off the ends of her gloves, a very unpardonable 
. offence in nurse’s eyes, and didn’t “bite hel’ finger 
. f nails,” — and now, to crown the measure of her ex- 
1 cellence, she knew the multiplication table ! She 
: hadn’t wasted all her time gazing out of the win- 
dow ! With all these recollections rushing into 
!r her mind, came the tears into her eyes, blinding 
i them so that all the figures were tumbling over 


10 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


each other in so hopeless a way, that they fell at 
last into such inextricable confusion, that I doubt 
if even to her dying day her mathematical genius 
ever recovered from the shock it received that 
memorable morning. 

For three long hours s'Ke was sobbing and 
pining over that primer — alone — for Fanny had 
finished her task, and was gone, mistress of her 
own time for the rest of the day. Her sorrows 
were relieved by the entrance of her father ; his 
coming was the end of that day’s trial ; her mother 
consented, at his desire, to allow the protracted 
lesson to be deferred until the next day, and as 
Lizzie threw herself sobbing into her father’s arms, 
she poured out the flood of her sorrows and hu- 
miliations ; told him “that she had been an idle little 
girl, displeased her mamma, that she couldn’t sew, 
wasn’t nice, didn’t behave like a lady, and — and — 
she was very unhappy indeed.” 

“ But my little daughter does not wish to be - 1 
naughty ? ’• ' 1 

“ Oh ! no indeed.” 

“ And she loves her father and mother, and lit- 
tle cousin Fanny.” ^ 

“ Oh ! yes ! Yes indeed ! ” sobbing more vio- ' 
lently than ever. 

“And papa loves his little daughter very j 
dearly — and we will go and take a walk, and see , 
if we shall not feel better.” 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


11 


At the end of an hour Lizzie had seen the sheep 
get their salt, and was just about to take a ride 
with her papa on old Charlie’s back, when Mr. 
Maitland was called away to receive some visitors 
who had just arrived. 

Seeing the disappointed expression of her face, 
he told Thomas, a faithful, trustworthy man, and 
many years in his service, to take care of Lizzie, 
and lead the horse to give her the long promised 
ride. 

“ Oh ! Thomas,” said she, “ how nice it is to be 
out in the pleasant sunshine ; how I wish I was a 
little bird, and I would fly up to heaven as they 
do ; it is much prettier up there, where the sun- 
shine comes fi’om, and where all the bright stars 
are shining. Wouldn’t you like to be a bird, 
Thomas, and go to heaven ? ” 

“ I would like to be innocent. Miss Lizzie, like 
a little bird, but they cannot go to heaven ; so I 
would rather be a man, and try to love God, and 
go there when I die, to dwell with Jesus Christ, 
and his blessed Mother, and all the holy angels and 
the saints who have gone there before us.” 

Lizzie listened, and after a thoughtful silence 
she looked up. “ Cannot we go to heaven, Thomas, 
unless we die first ? ” said she, her face assuming a 
very grave expression. “ I should not like to be 
shut up in the dark ground, and never to see the 
sunshme, nor hear the birds sing,” and continued 


12 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


she, ready to cry, “never to see my dear, dear 
papa and mamma again.” 

“ But, Miss Lizzie, you would see your papa 
and mamma again if you all loved the blessed Lord, 
and were aU good Catholics (which may the Lord 
grant some day), ” added he, in a low voice half to 
himself. 

“ I don’t know what you mean by Catholics,” 
said she, looking up with a puzzled expression. 

“ I mean, all who love the Lord Jesus Christ, 
and belong to the Church that he established, 
whereby mankind were to obtain salvation; and 
of which Jesus Christ is the perpetuaf and invisible 
head, and which he designed should continue to 
the end of the world,” said Thomas, solemnly, in- 
voluntarily using the words he had heard his priest 
uttering the Sunday previous, in his instructions, 
and forgetful that his little hearer could hardly be 
expected to comprehend. 

“I mean,” said he, recollecting himself, and 
commencing in the words of the catechism, “ all 
the faithful under one head, and that head is our 
Lord Jesus Christ, who died on the Cross for us ; ” 
and reverently bowing, he made on his breast the 
sign, as he spoke. 

“ Why do you do that, Thomas ? ” said Lizzie, 
looking curiously in his face. 

“To put us in mind of the Blessed Trinity, 
and that the second Person became man, and died 
on the cross.” 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


13 


“ Did he die for me, too ? ” said she, at length. 

“ He did. Miss Lizzie, for you and all mankind, 
and may the Blessed Virgin and your guardian 
angel pray for you, that it may not have Ibeen in 
vain.” 

“ Who is my guardian angel ? Is he always 
near me ? Does he take care of me ? ” said she, 
looking pleased and joyful. 

“ In the beginning God created a great many 
pure spirits, without bodies, making them happy 
with himself in heaven ; we call them angels. Miss 
Lizzie, and Almighty God appoints a particular one 
to watch overteach one of us.” 

“ Oh, how happy I am to know that ; now I 
shall never be afraid again, when I go to bed in the 
dark ; how I wish I could see him. But, Thomas, 
are you sure of this ? how do you know it ? ” said 
she, beginning to be troubled. 

“Because the Church teaches me so. Miss Liz- 
zie, and all good Catholics believe what the Church 
teaches; because, before Jesus Christ died, he 
promised to be with his Church all days, and he 
cannot deceive. My dear Miss Lizzie, if your kind 
papa, w^ho loves you so dearly, should tell you any 
thing, you would believe him, and if he were on 
his death-bed, and should give you a command, or 
should promise you any thing, you would surely 
believe him ; then a great deal more surely can 
you believe what Jesus Christ, who is God himself, 


14 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


shall tell you. Don’t yon think that Jesus Christ, 
who loved his children so well as to die for them, 
would be very sorry to go away, and leave them, 
without giving them any guide, or any thing to 
teach them how they could come to him in heaven ? 
They were poor and ignorant, they could not read, 
and .there were no books then, as there are now, 
not even the Bible, it was not all written. You 
don’t believe. Miss Lizzie, he could be so cruel as 
to leave them ^vithout any body, or any thing to 
teach them — they would forget what he had taught 
them, and how could others learn the way of salva- 
tion? ]^o, he would not forsake tHem for whom 
he was willing to die such a shameful and cruel 
death ; so he left his Apostles, with power to teach 
to every body what they had seen and heard from 
him — and to make people willing to listen and to 
believe them, he gave them power to work mira- 
cles.” 

“ A miracle, Thomas, what is that ? ” 

“ To do something above the power of a mere 
man, or any creature — such as to raise the dead, to 
heal the blind and sick — such things as our Lord 
himself did when he was in the world ; and sud- 
denly, when the Holy Ghost came down, they all 
could speak in all the tongues of every nation. 

“ You cannot understand. Miss Lizzie, the old 
French lady who comes to visit your mamma, when 
she speaks her own language. You will have to 


LIZZIE MAITLAIO). 


15 


study, and learn it out of books, when you get 
older ; but these Apostles went out, and without 
any learning, for they were poor, and some of them 
fishermen, spoke to every body in his own lan- 
guage, so that they could understand ; and these 
Apostles, you have heard there were twelve of 
them, believed all they taught, and laid down their 
lives to prove the truth of it ; and when they died 
other men succeeded them, who have the same au- 
thority to teach. 

“ As that authority has never been taken away, 
and our Lord promised himself always to be with 
his Church, you see. Miss Lizzie, it never could 
leave the appointed channel, and that is the reason 
why it is called the only true church.” 

Thomas spoke very earnestly, and the child 
1 listened with open ears, and although she did not 
! fully comprehend, still she treasured up and re- 
I membered much of what she heard, 
j “ Tell me one thing more, Thomas ; does Brid- 
get pray to the pretty lady with the child, and to 
the crucifix that hangs in her room ? ” 

“ It would be a great sin, Miss Lizzie, to pray 
to a picture or to an image; they have no life, 
and no sense to hear or help us ; Bridget honors 
the crucifix and the pictures only as they relate to 
Christ, and his saints, and are memorials of them — 
as your papa. Miss Lizzie, loves to look at the pic- 
ture in the parlor, of your grandmamma, and 


16 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


honors it because it puts him in mind of one he 
loved so much ; so we may honor the saints and 
angels, because they are God’s especial friends and I 
servants ; and as they are in heaven, before his | 
face, we beg of them to pray for us.” | 

“ And was that the re^ason, when the horses ran | 
away with my papa, you said, ‘ Holy Virgin ! pre- ; 
serve him ? ’ ” 

“Yes,” said Thomas. “If the angel Gabriel : 
and St. Elizabeth saluted her as full of grace, and 
blessed among women, a poor sinner like me ought i 
to beg her prayers.” 

Here they were interrupted by the appearance 
of Bridget, who came to take Lizzie away to dinner. 



I 

( 



CHAPTER II. 

Befoee introducing the newly arrived guests, 
we must present our readers to the family of Mr. 
Maitland, which consisted of his wife’s young sis- 
ter, Agnes Gray, little Fanny, the orphan niece of 
Mr. Maitland, — the only child of a recently de- 
ceased brother, — and two youug men, assistants of 
Mr. Maitland, who carried on a large iron works in 
the immediate vicinity of his residence. 

He was a man of large means, extensively en- 
gaged in business, of a benevolent disposition, sin- 
cerely disposed to act uprightly, but so over- 
whelmed by the multiplicity of cares, as to leave 
him really very little time for any thing else; and 
yet he contrived to make himself acquainted with 
the wants of his tenantry, and the poor in his 
neighborhood, and to relieve, in a substantial man- 
ner, their pressing necessities. 

In this he was aided in a very efficient manner 
by the active and cheerful kindness of his wife. 
Mrs. Maitland, though not an over-sensitive or 
2 * 


18 


LIZZIE MAITLAOT>. 


penetrating person, was possessed of good sense ; 
was sincerely attached to her husband, and upon 
all occasions manifested a profound respect for his 
wishes and judgment. They were truly a most es- 
timable couple, and beloved by all the poor in the 
neighborhood, whom their kindness had often re- 
lieved. 

Mrs. Maitland was herself a devoted Episco- 
palian ; she was truly disposed to be a Christian, 
and if she believed firmly, without the pain or 
shadow of a doubt, that her creed was the only 
true one, she had enough of Christian love in her 
heart to relieve the wants of those who differed 
fi’om her ; and for those she loved, she prayed that 
they might be coverted to her belief. 

While she and her husband ministered to the 
wants of all around, many, many a prayer was 
breathed from fervent Catholic hearts, “ that such 
good people might be brought to the knowledge 
of the true faith ; ” and the earnest ejaculations, 
“ May the Lord reward you ! ” “ May the Al- 
mighty God give you his blessing ! ” had a far 
deeper meaning than reached the understanding 
of good simple-minded Mrs. Maitland. 

But these fervent ’ •, who are 



the especial friends 


amongst 


whom he chose all his companions through his 
mournful pilgrimage, were not lost, and her own 
prayers and alms, like those of Cornelius the Cen- 


LIZZIE MAITLAKD. 


19 


turion, were also remembered, and brought forth 
their harvest in due season. 

The elder of the young men, Robert Davis, was 
a quiet, retiring, thoughtful person, every way 
worthy the confidence and trust reposed in him by 
Mr. Maitland ; and when he manifested a decided 
fondness for Agnes, his proposals were received 
by both Mr. and Mrs. Maitland with unhesitating 
approbation. Agnes, herself, was a charming girl, 
a stronger nature, and capable of higher and loftier 
aspirations than her sister ; she lent a ready and 
helping hand to her sister, both in the burden of 
her household and life-cares, and in the ministra- 
tions to the sick and poor of the neighborhood ; 
and when the frightful ship-fever made its dreadful 
havoc in the cabins around, many a dying mother’s 
eyes looked the blessings and prayers her parched 
lips could not utter, as she glided like an angel of 
mercy around their dying pillows. 

When Kitty O’Brien, the best moulder’s wife, 

I was ill of the long childbed fever, she took the 
half-famished infant away to her own room, and 
with patient care and tenderness fed the helpless 
little creature until its poor mother was again able 
to resume the care of her now thriving child, 
which would have been lying cold and stiff under 
the green sod but for Agnes’s care and kindness. 
Could Kitty’s affectionate heart ever forget Miss 
i Agnes’s goodness? She taught her child’s first 


20 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


lisping accents to breathe forth prayers for the kind 
lady who had saved her life ; and Kitty herself 
never forgot to entreat the Blessed Virgin to ob- 
tain rich blessings, and the grace of conversion for 
the good young lady who had saved her o^vn and 
her child’s lile. 

Agnes, in her kind offices, at the bedside of 
the sick and the dying, had not been insensible to 
all she had seen of the beauty and holiness of the 
Catholic faith ; its power to cheer the bed of death, 
and rob it of all that is appalling to the human 
heart, — ^the faith, stronger than death, that could 
elevate the soul far above the cruel sufferings of 
the body, make it forgetful of all the squalid mise- 
ries surrounding its dying bed, turn with out- 
stretched arms and a countenance beaming with 
heavenly light towards the holy Viaticum, and 
then, with murmured thanksgiving and praise, 
await in calmness no earthly interest had power to 
disturb, the final summons of the dread messenger. 

Agnes had already pondered deeply in her heart 
on these things, and there was just dawning on her 
soul a light to guide her through all eternity ; but 
she had no one of whom to seek counsel, and she 
yet groped in the mists and darkness of error. 

She had met the parish j^Wiest, a very worthy, 
pious man, several times in these scenes, but did 
not feel at liberty to confide to him her doubts, or 
seek instruction from him. 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


21 


Henry Sumner, the younger of the two young 
men, was many years the junior of Robert Davis, 
not much more than a boy. He was frank and af- 
fectionate, but without the stability of purpose to 
enable him to attain a very high degree of excel- 
lence in any pursuit. Mr. Maitland saw his faults, 
while he overrated his good qualities. Henry was 
the son of an early and much esteemed friend, now 
a widower, and residing in the South, who had 
taken a fatherly interest in Mr. Maitland. While 
Mr. Maitland was as blind as possible to his faults, 
he hoped every thing from time, and more expe- 
lience of life. # 

The newly arrived guests were the Rev. Mr. 
Gilford, the Tong expected minister, and his wife. 
As the parish was very poor, Mr. Maitland’s good 
heart had prompted him to offer them a home in 
his house, until such time as the congregation 
might be able to afford a salary sufficient to enable 
them to keep house in comfort. Their coming had 
been expected for a long time with considerable 
interest by the Maitlands. They had no family, 
but were accompanied by Miss Emily Harris, a 
young lady recommended by the Rev. Mr. Gilford 
as a person competent to take the charge of the 
education of Lizzie and Fanny. 

Mr. Gilford w^as a good-looking man, some^ 
where about forty ; the first general impression was 
agreeable, his voice was low and musical, his smile 


22 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


sweet and bland, and had a quiet persuasiveness 
about it which, with a manner polite and watchful 
in little things, rendered his attentions flattering to 
most ladies. In fact, to every body but his wife, 
he was marked in his civilities. To any but a close 
observer his coldness and indifierence to her, al- 
most amounting to neglect, was not at first ap- 
parent. 

Mrs. Gilford was a weU-disposed woman, still 
bearing the traces of former beauty ; she appeared 
to be older than her husband, or else the ravages 
of sorrow or time had made themselves more visi- 
ble on her face and form, th^ on the smooth, un- 
ruffled countenance of Mr. Gilford. He was tall 
and erect, a pleasant speaker, and Mth all those 
little gracious ways, he soon acquired a very con- 
siderable influence among the people wherever he 
might be. 

Mrs. Gilford was slightly deaf, and much ad- 
dicted to the use of snuff, which latter habit an- 
noyed her husband beyond measure ; the good 
woman made several ineffectual efforts to overcome 
it, but he made it the pretext for many slights and 
cutting innuendoes uttered in a low tone, which, 
not fully reaching her ears, caused poor Mrs. Gil- 
ford’s cheeks often to glow\ for, fancying them 
more severe than they really were, she suffered 
much annoyance. 

The company were all seated when Lizzie en- 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


23 


tered, with her little smiling face shining out be- 
neath the glossy ringlets, arranged with elaborate 
care, and adjusted to a nicety by nurse’s careful 
hand. 

As the reverend gentleman concluded a very 
long grace, the attention of every body was di- 
rected to Lizzie, saying in a low but very distinct 
voice, “ In the name of the Father, and the Son, 
and the Holy Ghost, Amen ! ” making at the same 
time a very conspicuous sign of the cross, and a 
very audible “ Amen.” 

“ Why, Lizzie,” said Mr. Maitland, with a half 
amused smile, “ why do you make the sign of the 
cross ? ” 

“ To put us in mind of the Blessed Trinity, and 
that the second Person became man, and died for 
us on the cross,” said she, with a studied sort of 
manner, as if it were something she had been 
repeating often to herself, that she might not for- 
get it. 

“ And who told you that, my little daughter ? 
Where did you learn it ? ” 

“I saw Bridget make the sign of the cross, 
and Thomas too, and I asked him what he did that 
for, and he told me that Jesus Christ died for me 
too^ and so I thought I might make it in token of 
my redemption,” said the child innocently, again 
repeating the words of Thomas. 

“Lizzie, you must not go to Thomas and 


24 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


Bridget for instruction,” said Mrs. Maitland, look- 
ing somewhat confused, “ and you must not talk so 
much at the table.” 

Mr. Maitland made no remark, in fact he did 
not know what to say ; he did not feel justified in 
reproving the child, or forbidding her to repeat an 
act for which she had given so distinct and satis- 
factory a reason. He sat silent and thoughtful for 
some moments ; it had never occurred to him in 
such a light before, and he could not forbear asking 
the question in his own mind, what reasonable ex- 
cuse can Protestants give for the repugnance they 
constantly evince for this “ sign of their redemp- 
tion f as Lizzie had so justly called it. 

An awkward pause of some moments ensued, 
broken at last by Mr. Gilford making some remarks 
on the bad effects of the example of Catholic ser- 
vants on the children and families of their employ- 
ers, and mentioned several instances that had come 
under his observation, where children had received 
so early and so strong a bias in favor of Romanism, 
that it had with difficulty been eradicated from their 
minds, and in several cases not at all ; they had 
actually given their families the shame and sorrow 
of seeing them turn away from the faith of their 
fathers, to embrace “ the lie.\^ and corruption of 
Rome.^'* 

“Who can think with patience of people re- 
hgiously brought up, and with their Bibles in their 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


25 


hands, turning to a religion full of idolatry and 
image worship, and,” continued he, with a con- 
temptuous sneer, “ praying to dead men and 
women, calling a woman the Mother of God^ and 
trusting to such a hack-door influence at the court 
of heaven. And then the priests are such a set of 
canting hypocrites, teaching them to lie, cheat, and 
steal from the Protestants ; that it is no crime to 
break faith with one opposed to his creed, and that 
it can easily be forgiven, if they only pay the priest 
well for it in confession?"* 

“ But I think, my dear sir, you are quite mis- 
taken,” said Agnes ; “ they do not pray to either 
images or pictures, or to men and women, neither 
do they ever pay the priest for hearing a confes- 
sion ; that is an absurd slander raised against them. 
They do entreat the prayers of the Blessed Virgin 
and the saints, and render her honor, but not divine 
worship; and that even you must admit, on the 
authority of your own Church, seems sanctioned 
by the salutation of the angel Gabriel, and of St. 
Elizabeth, who both greeted her as full of grace, 
and blessed among women, and the Church from 
which you claim to have your authority^ teaches 
that she is to be honored as the Mother of God.” — 
Gen. xlviii. 16 ; Matt, xviii. 10 ; Luke xv. 10 ; Rom. 
XV. 30 ; Isaiah ix. 6 ; Matt. i. 28 ; Luke i. 35 ; Luke 
i. 40 to 49 ; 1 Kings vii. 8, 9, 10 ; Heb. xiii. 18. 

“ But Catholics themselves will tell you that it 
3 


26 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


is a sin to believe them to be their redeemers, or 
m any way give to them the honor that belongs to 
God. They are taught that Christ is the sole me- 
diator of salvation^ but there are other mediators 
of intercession / they only ask them to do in hea- 
ven what they did while they were on earth, and 
what no good Christian on earth refuses, to help 
them by their prayers.” 

“ But my dear young lady, how are the good 
saints to hear and attend to all the praters that are 
addressed to them ? You ascribe to them the at- 
tribute of universal presence.” 

“ Not at all, my dear sir ; were I to pray to a 
saint, it does not foUow that I should believe the 
angel or the saint to be in that place ; we know 
from scripture that there is joy before the angels 
of God over one sinner that repenteth — Luke xv. 
10 ; why can they not hear our prayers, as well 
as rejoice over a repentant sinner now — and it 
seems to my simple understanding like limiting the 
power of God, to doubt his willingness and power 
to reveal to them the prayers of his children on 
earth. J acob asked and obtained the blessing of the 
angel with whom he had wrestled (Gen. xxxii. 26), 
and he also invoked his own angel to bless Joseph’s 
sons (Gen. xlvii. 16), and in I^evelations, where the 
four and twenty elders in heaven are said to have 
golden vials full of odors, which are the prayers of 
the saints (Rev. v. 8) ; and I have been told that 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


27 


the Church derived her doctrine on this and on 
other points, immediately from the Apostles, before 
any part of the 'New Testament was written.” 
— See Milner’s End of Controversy. 

“ I am very much surprised,” said Mr. Gilford, 
with one of his most persuasive smiles, “ to hear a 
member of this devoted family defending one of 
the errors of Rome, and that one of the most ab- 
surd ; Mary was only the mother of his human, not 
his divine nature.” 

“ But my dear sir how will you separate them, 
and still leave him the perfect, adorable God-man, 
the Redeemer our pitying Father sent into the 
world, to save us from eternal death ? ” said Agnes, 
her whole face glowing with the enthusiasm she 
felt ; and why do our people allow themselves to be 
guilty of the glaring absurdity of sneering at the 
Catholics for receiving the traditions of the Church, 
in proof of the doctrines they hold, when w^e our- 
selves can give no better reason for infant baptism, 
which we all deem essential, and also for the change 
from the Jewish sabbath or seventh, to the Jirst day 
of the week? We, ourselves, receive from the 
Catholic Church these, and other practices of our 
religion. Even St. Paul commands us to ‘ stand 
fast, and hold the traditions which you have learned, 
whether they are by word, or by epistle.’ (2 Thes. 
ii. 14.) I have often been pained,” continued 
Agnes, “ by the inconsistency of our practices ; I 


28 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


am taught by the Protestant Episcopal Church, 
that she obtains her authority to preach and teach 
directly from the Apostles, who had the power to 
transmit their authority (that very authority claimed 
by our Church), and yet, I constantly hear the 
bishops and priests of the Catholic Church reviled 
and despised, while my Bible teaches me (Luke x, 
16) that Jesus Christ, when he gave the authority, 
said, ‘ He that despiseth you, despiseth me,’ and I 
daily hear the Catholic Church reviled — ‘ that she 
has become corrupt,’ — ‘ that she is an abomination, 
and full of lies ; ’ and all this too in the face of the 
promise of Christ himself, to give the ‘ Spirit of 
Truth to guide it."* It makes my heart sick, and I 
know not where to turn to find the truth ; I am 
ready to sink with despondency, and only for the 
faith inspired by the belief, that after he had en- 
dured such boundless sufferings for mankind, Jesus 
Christ would surely keep his word, and perform the 
comparatively small part of it, by preserving his 
Church free from such abominable errors, as would 
destroy the souls for whom He died.” 

Agnes paused, and coloring violently, seemed 
scarcely able to repress her tears. Poor girl ! it 
was a sore trial to her. It was the first time that 
any member of her family hi\d ever heard her ex- 
press sentiments like these, but she had cherished 
them long in secret, and her pure mind had re- 
coded at the thought of the kind of deception she 


LIZZIE MAITLA^^D. 


29 


was allowing herself to practice. She dared not 
look at Robert, lest the fear of his disapproving 
eye might cause her to shrink from the perform- 
ance of a painful duty. 

Agnes’s purpose was too lofty, her mind and her 
heart too firm, to turn back, when she felt herself 
convinced that her duty lay plain before her, even 
if it had cost her the sacrifice of her heart’s dear- 
est treasure. She loved Robert Davis with all the 
fervor and strength of her deep, true nature ; it 
was no light, girlish fancy : she had loved him since 
her childhood ; it had grown with her growth, and 
strengthened with her maturer years. She was an 
orphan, but not poor or dependent ; she had felt 
the necessity of some one to whom she might cling 
for counsel and tenderness — ^these she had found in 
Robert ; and now, perhaps — and her heart-strings 
quivered with the agony of the apprehension — she 
might be called upon to make this fearful sacrifice. 
She had never trusted herself fairly to contemplate 
the picture her imagination could have drawn ; she 
had allowed it to rest, with the merciful veil of fu- 
turity concealing it. 

“ You allow yourself to become too much ex- 
cited, Miss Gray,” said the reverend gentleman, 
with another of his blandest smiles, and a patron- 
izing air. “ With your nervous and impulsive tem- 
perament, my dear young friend, I would by all 
means advise you to keep yourself out of the in- 
3 * 


30 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


fluence of these Romanists, for they will certainly 
mislead your easily excited fancy ; and more es- 
pecially against their priests would I warn you to 
guard yourself. Your young, pure heart can form 
no idea of their corruption. I have been recently 
reading the confessions of a converted priest, in 
which he says, that, however sincere a young man 
may he when he commences his ministry, that be- 
fore the age of thirty he either becomes a very 
great hypocrite, or else he renounces the corrupt 
system entirely, which*! beheve to be whoUy the 
truth, and the unavoidable result of a more inti- 
mate acquaintance with Catholic practices.” And 
having delivered himself of this Christian and 
charitable sentiment, he finished his wine, and the 
dinner was ended in silence. 

“ Agnes, will you walk with me to the village, 
this afternoon ? ” 

Agnes started, as Robert’s voice sounded in 
her ears ; she trembled violently ; but when she 
raised her head, and read in those clear, manly, 
truthful eyes, fixed with such earnest tenderness 
upon her, “ fear not, my beloved, your own pure 
heart shall follow its dictates unfettered by any re- 
straint from me,” there seemed a mountain load 
taken from her heart. TL^re was no need for 
words ; each understood the other, and her glance, 
more eloquent than words, expressed the happiness 
she felt. 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


31 


Agnes passed from the room to seek her bon- 
net ; when she returned Robert was awaiting her 
on the piazza; he drew her arm within his, and 
tenderly pressing the little hand that rested there, 
murmured softly, “ My own Agnes.” 

Agnes felt deeply the delicacy and kindness of 
his motive. She was reassured, and returning the 
pressure, with tearful eyes, and glowing cheeks, she 
opened her whole heart, and told him all her fears 
and anxieties, all that she had dreaded from his 
disapproval of the course she had almost fully re- 
solved to take. 

Robert listened in silence for some time ; at 
length he said : “ Agnes, this subject is new to me, 
yet, while I acknowledge its importance, I am not 
prepared to follow you, my beloved ! I must have 
i time for reflection, I* must examine for myself, and 
, while I would not for the world interfere with your 
t belief, in a matter that so nearly concerns your wel- 
i fare, for myself I must have conviction.” 

Agnes pressed his hand, and replied, that she 
1 herself was still in the darkness of ignorance, that 
I she had received no instruction. She then told him 
I how earnestly she had desired to make the ac- 
b quaintance of the parish priest, and proposed that 
‘ they should seek him together, to which Robert 
5: assented. 

As they passed the cottage of Kitty O’Brien, 
she stood in the door dressed in her best, with her 


32 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


child, an infant only a few weeks old, in her arms. 
With a countenance beaming with happiness, she 
presented it to Agnes, and told her they were just 
going to the humble little church, and assigning for 
the reason, that an old neighbor of hers had come 
some twenty miles on foot, bringing her child in 
her arms a great part of the way, to receive bap- 
tism. Father Bailey had promised to meet them 
this afternoon, as the poor mother could not be ab- 
sent long from her young family ; she had left them 
only in the charge of her oldest girl, not more than 
twelve years of age. 

“ If you would not take it as an ofience. Miss 
Agnes, shure it’s proud we’d be to have ye and 
Mr. Davis come wid us to the church beyant.” 

It was just the opportunity Agnes had long de- 
sired, but fearing it might *be disagreeable to 
Robert, she was about to decline Kitty’s modest 
invitation, when he answered that he would like to 
accompany her, if she had any desire to witness 
the ceremony, so they proceeded with Kitty to the 
humble little church. 

It was a very small, unpr^ending frame build- 
ing, standing in the midst of a natural grove ; the 
Catholics were too poor, and few in numbers, to be 
able to decorate it very elaborately — some candle- 
sticks of very plain workmanship, and a few flowers 
adorned the altar. A small silver lamp suspended 
before it, was burning ; the priest in his white robe 


LIZZIE MAITLAITD. 


83 


was already kneeling there, and as Agnes entered, 
she felt impressed by a solemnity she had never be- 
fore experienced in the most costly and elegant 
churches of her own faith. 

Father Bailey was an earnest, hard-working, 
devoted priest ; the frosts of time were beginning 
to sprinkle his locks, but his erect figure, and the 
sparkle of his clear, dark eye, told that the vigor 
of his frame was undiminished ; the mild and re- 
signed expression of the well formed mouth ren- 
dered his countenance remarkably sweet and win- 
ning, and it did not mislead ; he was truly the 
benevolent, sensible man, and the charitable Chris- 
tian, that his face indicated. Agnes might have 
sought long without finding a more discreet guide 
and counsellor. 

j The baptismal service is full of significance ; and 
1 when the elder child, who was nearly four years 

I old, (a thing very uncommon among Catholics for 
a child to be deprived of baptism for that length 
of time, and only in .this instance occurring, on ac- 
count of the distance that the poor mother resided 
from the priest, and the difliculty of leaving her 
I young family alone,) was presented, the little crea- 
f ture turned her sweet earnest face towards the 
i priest, folded her hands across her breast, bowed 
li her head, while her eyes seemed to gleam with a 
I spiritual light, as if the holy rite had already im- 


84 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


parted to the young soul, the graces promised by 
the Church. 

Nobody could behold with indifference a sight 
so truly touching. Upon Robert the impression 
was very vivid, and he remarked to Agnes after- 
wards, that it appeared to him at that moment, 
that there must be good foundation for the belief 
of Catholics, that the care of each human soul is 
committed to the keeping of a guardian angel ; it 
seemed as if only a heavenly inspiration could have 
guided so young a child to conduct itself in a man- 
ner so remarkable. 

After the service was ended, Agnes lingered 
with Kitty at the church door. As Father Bailey 
came out, he bowed pohtely to Agnes and Robert, 
and was passing on, but Kitty stopped him, and 
introduced them. 

Father Bailey knew her, but had never been 
formally presented. He had not been long in 
charge of this parish, but having seen her at the 
sick beds of some of his parishioners in the neigh- 
borhood, had learned her name from the blessings 
and good wishes of those she had relieved. 

He politely invited them to enter his house, 
which was close at hand ; they accepted his invita- 
tion, and, after some general conversation, Agnes 
frankly told him of her desire to have some of the 
dogmas of the Catholic Church more fully explained. 
Father Bailey expressed the pleasure he felt, and 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


35 


his entire readiness to satisfy her doubts to the best 
of his ability. Agnes blushed and hesitated, and 
finally said, that although she had so long and ear- 
nestly desired this interview, now, that the oppor- 
tunity was at hand, she found great embarrassment 
in knowing how to begin. 

She said she had long felt attracted, in an unac- 
countable manner, towards the Catholic Church, 
but had striven to repress the desire, blaming her- 
self as for something wrong, all the while feeling a 
distrust, that it was merely the attraction of her 
senses, drawing her thither by the love of the beau- 
tiful in the outward forms and rites ; the music, the 
paintings, and what Protestants call “ the idle mum- 
meries of the Romanists but the scenes she 
had witnessed at the sick and dying beds of the 
poor Catholics, had convinced her that there was 
some mysterious influence in that Faith^ which she 
had never known; she felt more and more con- 
vinced of it to-day, in the little church. The doc- 
trine of Transubstantiation had long been a power- 
ful attraction to her ; to be able to go with the 
burden of deep grief, in the rapture of thanksgiv- 
ing, to pour out all at the feet, and in the sensible 
presence of our Lord, had to her mind an un- 
speakable satisfaction. 

“Am I to understand you then, my young 
friend, as already believing the doctrine of Tran- 
substantiatioD ? ” asked Father Bailey. 


36 


T.J7:ZTV<. MAITLAND. 


“ I am not certain that I fully comprehend it,” 
said Agnes ; “ and I should be greatly obliged to 
you, if you would explain to me more fully what 
the Church proposes to her children, as an article 
of faith, on that subject.” 

“ The Church teaches,” said he, “ that the holy 
Eucharist is the teue and dlood of Jems 

Christy under the appearance of bread and wine^ 
and that by the words of consecration^ pronounced 
by the priests of the Church in the Mass, bread is 
changed into the body of Christy and ^^dne into his 
blood ; yet so that he is present, whole and entire^ 
both body and bloody sold and divinity^ under the 
appearance either of bread or of wine?"^ 

“Then,” said Agnes, “that accounts for the 
practice of the Church in administering the sacra- 
ment to the laity only in one kind, which is so con- 
stantly thrown as a reproach at Catholics.” 

“ Yes — in receiving this adorable Sacrament 
under the form either of bread or of wine^ we re- 
ceive Jesus Christ whole awe? entire^ that is, the 
Second Person of the blessed Trinity in our human 
nature. And there is no article of the Catholic 
faith more firmly grounded on the authority of the 
Holy Scriptures (Matt. xxvi. 26, 27, 28 ; John vi. 
27, 32, 49, 50, 51, 52-60). If any man eat of this 
bread he shall live for ever ; Vand the bread that 
I will give him is my flesh for the life of the world.’ 
5y ‘ I am the living bread which came down from 
Heaven.’ ” 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


87 


“ But,” said Robert, “ is not this to' be taken 
in a figurative sense, and the command to do this 
in commemoration of him. I must confess, in all 
deference, my dear sir, it seems like that to me, more 
than an actual command to eat the body and blood 
of our Lord, which sfeems so contrary to our nat- 
ural sense and reason.” 

“ My dear young friend,” said Father Bailey 
kindly, yet earnestly, “ you forget that our Lord ' 
said at the same time (Luke xxii. 16), ‘And taking 
the bread he gave thanks and brake, and gave to 
them, saying. This is my hody which is given for 
you. Do this in commemoration of me ; ’ verse 
22, ‘And in like manner the chalice also,’ &c. &c. ; 
and in the 6th chapter of John, commencing at 48th 
verse to 66. 41st, ‘The Jews therefore murmured 
at him because he said, I am the living bread which 
came down from heaven ; ’ ‘ They murmured at 
him,’ verse 53 ; the Jews therefore strove among 
themselves, saying, ‘ Sow can this man give us his 
flesh to eat?’ and verse 61, ‘ therefore of 

his disciples hearing it said. This saying is hard^ 
and who can bear it ? ’ Jesus, who loved his dis- 
ciples, could easily have satisfied them by saying, — 
when he was fully aware of the peculiar horror of 
that people against bloody he could easily have 
said that it was only a figure of speech, — only a 
symbol, — but he never told them so ; — he asked. 
Doth this scandalize you ? And when they turned 
4 


88 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


away, he suffered them to go. He repeated to 
them (verse 54), ‘Amen, Amen — I say unto you, ex- 
cept you eat the jlesh of the Son of 3Ian^ and 
drink his bloody you shall not have eternal life in 
you.’ 55th, ‘ He that eateth my flesh and drinketh 
my blood, hath everlasting life ; and I will raise 
him np in the last day.’ In thiSy as in the other 
sacraments, there is an outward action performed, 
consisting in the consecration of bread and wdne, 
into Christ’s body and blood, by the words which 
he ordained ; this is my body, this is my blood.” 

“ But,” said Robert, “ does not the Protestant 
version of the Scripture say broken^ instead of 
given for you ? ” 

“ It does,” said Father Bailey ; “ in the English 
Protestant version of St. Paul’s account, it reads, 
‘ This is my body which is broken for you.’ While 
some prefer this reading, others have ‘ bruised,^ 
and more recent editions have '‘given? But if I 
understood Miss Gray, she asked me for the Catho- 
lic doctrine, and so I have confined my quotation 
to the Catholic version of the Bible.” 

“ I see much to admire in the Catholic Church,” 
said Robert. “ But one thing I must own seems 
an unpleasant feature to me. While I don’t object 
to the devotion of her members, yet I cannot but 
lament the intolerance that ^akes Catholics con- 
demn all other denominations, and maintain that 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


89 


there is no salvation out of her Church, that none 
of the rest are right.” 

“ Christ himself was just as intolerant,” Father 
Bailey replied, “ when he said there was but one 
shepherd and one fold, and that the other sheep 
must be brought into the one fold. And why was 
not the selection of the children of Israel, as the 
chosen people of God, just as intolerant ? They 
were acknowledged so, and other nations of the 
earth were cut off for them. Mark xvi. 16, ‘He 
that believeth not shall be condemned.’ This one 
shepherd^ and one fold, surely can be found no- 
where else on earth ; there is no other that lays any 
claim to unity and infallibility, and that professes 
to be in regular succession from St. Peter ; and in 
a matter of such vital importance, a claim so stoutly 
maintained, and so well substantiated, deserves at 
least to be examined ; we show that much attention 
and respect to subjects of far less importance. 
The supremacy of St. Peter is clearly deducible 
from Scripture. Christ told him, ‘ Thou art Peter, 
on this rock wUl I build my church.’ Jesus said to 
the eleven (Matt, xxviii. 18, 19), ‘ And Jesus coming 
spoke to them sajdng. All power is given to me in 
heaven and in earth.’ 19th, ‘ Going therefore, 
teach ye all nations, baptizing them in the name 
of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.’ 20th, 
‘ Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I 
have commanded you / and behold I am with you 


40 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


all days, even to the consummation of the world.’ 
No language can he stronger than the command 
was, to TEACH. He did not tell them to read Bibles, 
for there were none, — none of the New Testament 
was written. What was to become of all those 
souls who had to rely on the teachings of the 
Apostles for their knowledge of the way of salva- 
tion? The Church, the teachings and traditions 
of the Apostles and their successors, had to he the 
rule of faith. 

“ Christ commanded them to hear the 
Church. To my mind, no language can be plainer.; 
and the same obligation to hear the voice of the 
Church must rest upon us, as the succession is per- 
fectly clear, and the names of the successors all on 
record. None., but those blinded by prejudice, 
whether wilful or inherited, can fail to perceive it. 

“Against the records of the Church., Protest- 
ants have nothing but simple denial. That is not 
proof. 

“ St. Paul himself seems plainly to acknowledge 
the supremacy of St. Peter ; before he commenced 
his labors he went to visit him at Jerusalem (Gal. 
i. 18).” 

“My dear sir,” said Robert, “while I thank 
you for your patience, there is still another .serious 
objection that all Protestants Vmake — I mean con- 
fession. Can you produce any warrant from Scrip- 
ture, for a practice so repugnant to the feelings of 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


41 


all. I say it without any intention of showing dis- 
respect ; hut how can you show that it was not a 
mere human invention ; and why, except to obtain 
some undue influence over the minds of men, is so 
revolting a practice retained ? ” 

“ My young friend,” said Father Bailey, his 
countenance assuming a very serious expression, 
“ if this were merely a human institution, would 
there not have been some record of the time, of the 
founder, of the pretext^ for its institution ? Could 
a man^ who had the skill to fasten on the necks of 
his followers a yoke so galling, both to clergy and 
laity, have remained in obscurity? Would not the 
enemies of the Catholic Church have dragged to 
the light of day, and exposed the motives of its 
founder, which they stigmatize as infamous and 
abominable ? I ask you again, my dear sir, to an- 
swer me candidly and dispassionately, could such a 
man^ or such a body of men^ have kept themselves 
concealed ? The time when such a burden was im- 
posed, must have been recorded, if it were not 
from the beginning a practice of the Apostles them- 
selves. 

“ I repeat again, no human skill could have in- 
duced either clergy or laity, to submit to a prac- 
tice so galling. It is equally binding on the bish- 
ops and priests, and even the Pope himself con- 
fesses his sins. What 4hink you could induce the 
minister of Christ to sit, hour after hour, through 
4 * 


42 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


the heat of summer, and the frosts of wunter, often- 
times fasting, wearied in body and spirit, m the 
narrow confines of the confessional, listening to the 
tale of human woe poured into his ear. Is the 
human heart so ready to extend its sympathy, as 
to endure such privations to lessen the amount of 
human misery ? Oh ! believe me, my young friend, 
there must have been something more than human 
ingenuity, to fasten this yoke on the necks of 
either priests or people. You ask me can I ‘ show 
any warrant from Scripture ? ’ I can, numerous 
ones. Numbers v. 5, 6, 7 ; Matt. iii. 5, 6 ; Matt, 
xviii. 18; John xx. 22, 23; Acts xix. 18; James 
V. 16 ; 1 John i. 8, 9. 

“ When Christ breathed upon his Apostles, and 
said to them, ‘ Receive ye the Holy Ghost, whose 
sins you shall forgive^ they are forgiven to them ; 
and whose sins you shall retain, they are retained,’ 
John XX. 22 and 23, do you not think that he gave 
real power to remit sins, or are these plain words 
of Holy Scripture to be wrested from their literal 
sense to mean something else. 

“The Church of England and some of her 
ablest champions agree with Ghillingworth^ who 
says in reference to this text : ‘ Can any man be so 
unreasonable as to imagine, that when our Saviour, 
in so solemn a manner, having first breathed upon 
his disciples, thereby conveying to, and insinuating 
the Holy Ghost into their hearts, renewed unto 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


43 


them, or rather confirmed that glorious commis- 
sion, and whereby he delegated to them an au- 
thority of binding and loosing sins upon earth, &c. ; 
can any one think so unworthily of our Saviour, as 
to esteem these words of his for no better than com- 
pliment ? Therefore, in obedience to his gracious 
will, and as I am warranted and enjoined by my 
holy mother, the Church of England, I beseech 
you, that by your practice and use, you will not 
suffer that commission which Christ hath given to 
his ministers, to be a vain form of words, without 
any sense under them. When you find yourselves 
charged and oppressed, &c., have recourse to your 
S2)iritual physician, and freely disclose the nature 
and malignancy of your disease, &c. And come 
not to him, only with such a mind as you would go 
to a learned man, as one that can sj)eak comforta- 
ble things to you ; but as to one that hath author^ 
ity delegated to him from God himself, to absolve 
and acquit you of your sins.’ Serin. YII., Relig. pp. 
408, 409. 

“ And Luther himself^ in his Catechism, required 
that the penitent, in confession, should expressly 
declare that he believes the '‘forgiveness of the 
priest^ to be the forgiveness of God.’ (Catechism. 
See also Luther’s Table Talk, or Auricular Con- 
fession.) 

“ ‘ Many that believed came and confessed, and 
declared their deeds,’ (Actsxix. 18,) and ('James v. 


44 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


16,) ‘Confess your sins one to another,’ &c., &c. 
The Church of England moves the dying man to 
confess his sins, to what end ? but that the priest 
may know his state of mind, to bind or absolve 
from his sins.” 

Here Father Bailey was interrupted by a sick 
call, and Agnes and Robert rose to depart. The 
conversation was of course dropped for the pres- 
ent, Father Bailey assuring them, that it would at 
anytime give him pleasure to renew it, or give 
them any instruction they might desire. 



\ 



CHAPTER III. 

More than six months had glided away, without 
producing any very perceptible change in Mrs. 
Maitland’s family. The children made some little 
progress under the tuition of Miss Harris, but not 
as much as Mrs. Maitland desired, nor, charitable 
as she was, what she had expected. Mr. Gilford 
had offered his services to assist Miss Harris in the 
instruction of the children, and also to give that 
young lady herself some lessons in mathematics 
and the languages. Agnes had been invited to 
join the class; but of late, for some reasons that she 
did not mention, had withdrawn entirely, and 
steadily declined going to the school-room; and 
upon one occasion, she ventured to suggest, in the 
gentlest possible manner, to Miss Harris, that she 
had better confine her lessons to the school-room, 
and not go to the private apartments of the Rev. 
Mr. Gilford ; and told her as kindly as she could, 
that her doing so had given rise to impertinent and 


46 


TTZZTTC MAITLAND. 


disagreeable remarks amongst the servants, and it 
was always better to avoid the least appearance of 
scandal. But Miss Harris did not take it kindly 
from her ; she was offended, and cried, and treated 
Agnes as if she had been guilty of very great in- 
justice, and her manner became so unpleasant, that 
Agnes, whatever she might have thought, kept it 
all locked within her own breast, and never ven- 
tured again to make any suggestion. 

Mrs. Gilford’s pale sad face grew gradually paler 
and sadder, and Mrs. Maitland exerted herself to 
tempt the good woman’s appetite, — took her often 
to drive through the neighborhood, and urged her 
to take short walks with her, and endeavored to 
interest her in the families of the poor, — and in 
various ways tried to win her from the settled de- 
spondency that seemed to be wearing her life away. 
And a close observer could have detected an anx- 
ious, unsettled expression on her own countenance ; 
but whatever might be her anxieties or cares, she 
said nothing. 

The time was drawing near when Agnes was to 
be united to Robert Davis, and Mrs. Maitland’s 
thoughts were busy with preparations for that 
event. Agnes’ change from Protestantism to Catho- 
licity, was, at first, a real grie^ and vexation to her, 
but she had gradually become reconciled to it ; she 
was too affectionate, and too sincerely attached, to 
persecute or annoy her sister, — ^both Mr. Maitland 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


47 


and herself were incapable of any thing of the sort, 
and neither would have dreamed of throwing any 
obstacles in her way. Mr. Gilford’s arguments fell 
unheeded upon Agnes’ ears, and if a shade of doubt 
did sometimes for a moment cross the mind of Mrs. 
Maitland, when Agnes dwelt upon the claims of 
the Catholic Church, and urged as a reason for the 
step she herself hadr taken, the impossibility of 
securing salvation out of the channel through which 
Christ himself had appointed it to be received, 
she silenced her own conscience by thinking that 
her own parents — her mother, to whom she had 
been tenderly attached, and her own husband, were 
Protestants — and it really made no difference after 
all what creed one believed, so that he had the 
real disposition to serve God — a person would get 
to Heaven from any church if - he were only sin- 
cerely in earnest. Poor woman ! she quieted her 
conscience as thousands have done ; she could not 
endure the pain of breaking old ties, and she dared 
not to trust herself to examine any further, for 
fear of being made to feel the truth of what 
Agnes so earnestly urged upon her, that the Catho- 
lic Church holds, and proves from Scripture, that 
%he alone is the true Church. She must, to be con- 
sistent, hold this doctrine of exclusive salvation, 
and that the charge of bigotry could no more be 
brought against her for maintaining a claim she is 
so well able to substantiate, than against the J ews 


( 


48 LIZZIE MAITLAND. 

for asserting that they were the chosen people of 
God, and the only depository of divine truth. 

“ 'But my dear young lady,” said Mr. Gilford, 
who entered the room, one day, during one of 
those discourses between the sisters, and thus joined 
in the conversation, “ you cannot intend to insist 
that the Catholic religion, as it exists now, is the 
only true religion ? Look around you, see to what 
a degraded state it has brought aU those countries 
where Romanism prevails, — ^look at the withering 
influence of Jesuitism, and contrast those countries 
with the more favored nations, where the Pro- 
, testant religion has expelled the errors and dark- 
ness of Popery ! ” 

“And what am I to see, even when I judge of 
things by your own standard of mere worldly 
prosperity ? 

“I totally deny your premises — I deny that 
they are more prosperous. Look at Ireland, re- 
duced to her present situation, not by her religion, 
but by the cruelty of Protestant England’s penal 
laws, that made it a crime for even a child to be 
taught to read by a Catholic — laws that virtually 
prevented the Catholic from attaining to the 
Protestant standard of prosperity. And evep 
though I should grant you, to at to be rich is to be 
prosperous and happy, that would not go one step 
towards proving the truth or falsity of the Catho- 
lic Church. It does not diminish one iota of her 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


49 


claim to be obeyed as the one true Church ; if it 
prove any thing, it is in favor of it. For were not 
the most polished and powerful nations of the 
earth, those most renowned for science, literature, 
and arms, passed over, left in the darkness of error, 
and in the shadow of death, while a poor and 
despised people, oppressed by the rich and great 
ones of earth, were chosen as the depository of 
divine truth, and elevated to the dignity of the 
chosen people of God ? To my simple understand- 
ing, it only strengthens my premises; for this 
people, like Catholics now, continued to be poor 
in worldly treasures — were always despised and op- 
pressed. Our blessed Lord, by choosing for himself 
and his Mother poverty and obscurity^ has invested 
both with a kind of dignity.” 

“ Ellen, my love,” said Mr. Maitland, entering 
the room with an open letter in his hand, and a 
smile on his face, “ I wish you or Agnes would go 
to see poor Patrick. I fear they may be in need, 
for his letter seems pretty urgent for work ; ” and 
Mr. Maitland read aloud the following character- 
istic epistle. 

“Der Sib: — I hope you will excuse me For 
thos Fue Lines I have send you Pleas to Let you 
know that I never will For get your gentlemanly 
Feelings Thos me (you give me your wood to cut 
and you got me the Ice House to fill wich I dis- 
5 


50 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


charg me deuty with Integerty accorden to your 
recommend not For getting Mr — ss Maitland that 
Long may shee Live and Happy may shee Bee and 
the Lord From all Danger set her Free. I expect 
you will Be is kind to me now as ever in regard to 
cutting of the remander of your wood I expect 
you will not give it to any won From me as I 
stand most need of it the childer bees doun wid 
mesels and Biddy herself lying these six weeks 
gone — and meself just up from the last attack of 
the fever — ^the Lord reward you for all the kind- 
ness yees have done til yees obedient servant 

“Patrick Mahoney.” 

Mrs. Maitland said she would go herself, imme- 
diately, and attend to the necessities of the family. 
She was soon ready, and set off, accompanied by a 
servant, bearing a well filled basket. 

As she passed the house of old Mrs. Reed, she 
recollected that she had not seen her or any of the 
family at church for several Sundays ; so she sent 
Thomas forward to Patrick’s cabin, telling him, 
that he might leave the contents of the basket, and 
return home ; that she should not require his ser- 
vices any longer — she entered the dwelling of 
Mrs. Reed. 

The old woman, who was busily engaged knit- 
ting, rose when she entered, and greeted her, seem- 
ingly, with much pleasure. That she was a pattern 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


51 


of a tidy New England housewife, the rows of 
shining tins on the old-fashioned dresser, and the 
long strings of dried pumpkins and apples, stretched 
on poles over head, fully attested. Around the 
broad chimney were hung huge pieces of dried 
beef, interspersed with red pepper, and in the cor- 
ner, near the fire, stood a churn, with a snow-white 
napkin pinned around the top, the dasher standing 
cosily in the midst, as if inviting some pair of skill- 
ful hands to commence the process of converting the 
rich, sweet cream into the golden lumps, that were 
the pride of good Mrs. Reed’s heart. A peep into 
her dairy at the nice, substantial cheeses, and the 
tempting pans of milk, the great baskets filled with 
eggs, ready to be sent off to market — the cackling 
of poultry around the outhouses, where five or six 
sleek-looking calves were meekly dozing, and a 
superb peacock strutted and pompously displayed 
his magnificent feathers before an envious gobbler, 
the intensity of whose emotions was manifested by 
the deepening crimson, and the rapid elongation 
of his frontal caruncle, and the solicitude he showed 
to withdraw the hen-turkeys from the pernicious 
influence of this gaudy enchanter, — everything 
showed that there was an abundance of the good 
things of this life in and around that humble farm- 
house. 

After some cordial inquiries on both sides, Mrs. 
Maitland said, “I was fearful that some of the 


52 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


family might be ill, not having seen you for some 
time at church ; you know the congregation is so 
small that the absence of one family makes quite 
a perceptible difference.” 

“ I know,” said Mrs. Reed, fidgeting in her 
chair, and taking off her glasses and rubbing them 
carefully, holding them up between her eyes and 
the light, and giving them another vigorous polish, 
as if she had discovered one more blemish — she 
held them up once more, and then, as if satisfied in 
her own mind of their unexceptionable condition, 
she touched a spring spectacle case, and laying them 
carefully into it, said, with an air of one determined 
to give utterance to sometlnng that had long given 
her uneasiness — 

“Well, now, Mrs. Maitland, I will just tell you 
plainly, and no offence either to you or to your hus- 
band for getting him here, I don’t like the minister — 
he aint to the mind of us plain folks. To be sure 
he’s smiling, and has pleasant ways, wheii he comes 
to see a body ; and I can’t say any thing particular 
against his sermons, and somehow they aint godly 
like, and,” continued she, lowering her voice, “ since 
it’s to you, Mrs. Maitland, I am just going to free 
my mind, he aint much liked about here among the 
neighbors. We are all plain folks, but we know 
when a man does right in the little every-day ways 
of life. 

“We don’t like to see the minister riding and 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


53 


walking about the country with a young lady, so 
often, and leaving his own wife alone at home — 
and the people all say, that Miss Harris hangs on 
his arm hke his own wife, and that^ for a minister, 
does not look well, and people will talk, you know.” 

Poor Mrs. Maitland colored to her temples, as 
if the accusation had been brought against herself. 
She had keenly felt the impropriety of these things ; 
she had even seen and regretted them, and the 
sight of Mrs. Gilford’s pale, sad face often haunted 
her; remarks had been made in the family, once 
quite rudely, to Mr. Gilford himself, by a coarse, 
but good-hearted servant girl, who, when she was 
reproved by Mrs. Maitland, said bluntly — “Well, 
she didn’t see why the minister didn’t ride and 
walk with his own wife, and not always be helping 
that stuck-up-thing over the stiles, and bringing 
her flowers ; it would be a better example to leave 
the like of her, and mind his o^vn wife — poor sick 
body, she needed it bad enough ! ” 

“ But, my good Mrs. Reed,” said Mrs. Mait- 
land, with some hesitation — “ can you not induce 
the neighbors to be quiet, and not give scandal to 
the other denominations ? They have enough fault 
to find always, without our own people giving them 
occasion, by the circulation of these slanders ; for 
you must be aware, my good woman, they can be 
nothing else.” 

“ I mustn’t say, that’s very certain^ that they 
6 * 


# 


64 


LIZZIE IVIAITLAND. 


are true, but I will not say that it does not look 
badly. And a woman who gives as good an ex- 
ample in the neighborhood as you do, cannot 
approve of such things,” said Mrs. Reed, in a posi- 
tive way. 

“ I think the Episcopals, as well as others, per- 
haps, say too much about it ; but, Mrs. Maitland, 
you must own it takes the heart and courage out 
of one to hear a man preach one thing, and act so 
contrary to his preaching himself. If we should 
fall sick, we don’t want to send for a man then, 
who gives us such a poor example, and edifies us so 
little in health.” 

Mrs. Maitland could not defend what she so 
cordially disapproved; so she begged Mrs. Reed 
not to believe all she heard, and to try to influence 
her neighbors to think as charitably as possible. 

Rising to take her leave, she invited Mrs. Reed 
to come over and see her, and proceeded to 
Patrick’s cottage, musing sadly upon the remarks 
of the old lady. 

It was a clear, bright afternoon, and although 
near Christmas, still no snow had fallen; the air 
was fresh and invigorating, without being keenly 
piercing. 

Mrs. Maitland pursued her way, musing sadly, 
and wondering what course she ought to pursue, 
feeling the difficulties of her position, without seeing 
any way clear to extricate herself. 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


65 


When she arrived at the cottage, she found 
them rejoicing over the contents of the basket left 
by Thomas, and the children not as sick as their 
father had thought them ; she administered some 
simple medicine, encouraged the poor, sick mother, 
gave her a few kind words of sympathy and ad- 
vice, and when she quitted their humble dwelhng, 
she left lighter hearts behind, and carried with her, 
to strengthen her on her pilgrimage, the prayers 
and blessings of those her kindness had relieved. 

“ Shure,” as Pat said, “ it’s a little thitig as 
helps the poor ; I trust the Lord wiU not forsake 
Biddy nor me — we have always trusted Him for 
these long years, and it’s always the bit and. the 
sup He has provided, when the hour looked the 
darkest, blessed be his Holy Name. Sure it’s onasy 
Biddy was when the childer got sick, and the nivir 
a haputh to give them — but, whist, Biddy, honey ! 
says I ; the Lord hears the young ravens whin they 
cry, and He’ll not be casting us off who never for- 
get to thank Him for all his mercies to us, and we so 
I little desarvin.” 




Wh:en Mrs. Maitland left Pat’s cottage, she passed 
on with a quick, light footstep, not pausing or 
lingering to admire the glorious sunset — her heart 
was busy with other things ; her thoughts dwelt 
with a painful intensity on what she had just heard 
from old Mrs. Reed, and it caused her much sorrow. 
Sincere and guileless herself, she shuddered, and 
was disgusted at the duplicity of one whom she 
felt bound to respect, and whom she so heartily 
desired to esteem. 

Mrs. Maitland’s thoughts were diverted from 
so painful a channel as she drew near home, by the 
sight of two bright little faces coming to greet her. 

Lizzie, accomjianied as usual by old Nero, 
bounded forward, with outstretched aftns, and 
seizing Mrs. Maitland’s hand, imprinted several 
kisses upon it, saying, with a tone and look that 
belied her words — “ Oh ! my cruel mamma, to go for 
a nice long walk, all by herself, and leave her little 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


67 


children shut up so dismal at home. Mamma dis- 
dains our company, Fanny.” 

“ And so my little daughter is not content with 
cherishing unkind thoughts towards her mamma, 
but she wishes to inspire her cousin Fanny with un- 
just suspicions, is that it ? ” said Mrs. Maitland, with 
a graver expression than she intended, nor was she 
at all aware of the weight her child attached to 
her words. She had not quite shaken off the har- 
assing thoughts that had occupied her mind, and 
still left their grave traces on her countenance. 

“ My aunty never disdains my company,” said 
Fanny, looking up with a comfortable and satis- 
fied air. 

The little girl, though kind and affectionate, 
still had not the noble, generous impulses that 
actuated her cousin, and the unbounded praise so 
constantly bestowed upon her, had rendered her 
somewhat conceited; she was naturally deficient 
in the delicacy and tact that would have prevented 
her making a remark likely to wound the feelings 
of another. She was one of those natures that 
have a fine intention to do right always, and suc- 
ceed so well, that they come at last, from the inju- 
dicious bestowal of praise, to forget that they can 
do any wrong ; and when overtaken in a fault, in- 
stead of confessing it magnanimously, and with a 
sincere resolution of amendment, allow a feeling of 
obstinacy and resistance to spring up. 


68 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


Such persons rarely love those who endeavor 
to correct their faults, however gently or affection- 
ately it may he done, and in consequence, dispo- 
sitions that have much in them really valuable and 
lovable, gradually acquire an incrustation of self- 
ishness and conceit, that obscures their nobler 
qualities. 

Lizzie saw her mother’s grave expression, and, 
without fully understanding it, she felt a little sad- 
dened, and fell into a train of musing ; she could 
not help wondering how it was that, with a heart 
so full of love and affection for every body, and 
such a desire to see all around her happy, and to be 
! good and happy herself, she so much oftener did 
wrong than right, and that with all her resolutions 
and endeavors, she never could accomplish what 
seemed so easy to Fanny’s less impulsive nature. 

It was not the least touch of envy that caused 
those big bright drops to fall amid the shaggy locks 
of Nero, as she bent over him and clasped her little 
arms around his neck, and murmured words of 
affection, which he seemed to comprehend well 
enough, if one could judge from the sympathetic 
wag of his tail. 

She lingered behind while Mrs. Maitland and 
Fanny continued their walk homeward. Mrs. 
Maitland’s mind was so full of other things, that 
she really did not observe that Lizzie was not be- 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


59 


side her, for there was nothing at all unusual in her 
loitering at any time to play with Nero. 

“You love me, good doggee, don’t you, and 
always understand me; you never think I am 
naughty ? ” 

The creature turned his clear, friendly eyes 
towards her with an expression that said, as plainly 
as words, “ that I do, and though all the world 
should frown, you will find me ever fond and faith- 
ful,” — he tried to lick her soft cheek, then laid his 
head over her shoulder as she half knelt beside 
him. 

“What are you doing here alone, you little 
gypsy?” said Robert Davis, stopping his horse 
close beside the child, who had been so engrossed 
as not to hear his approach, 

“ Waiting for you to give me a ride, perhaps,” 
said she, looking up with an expression he could 
not resist. So laughing, he dismounted and placed 
her before him on the saddle, which so delighted 
her, that one would have sought in vain in that 
glowing, joyous young face for any traces of the 
sadness visible but a moment before. 

Nero wagged his tail in token of joyful recog- 
nition, capered and trotted along, as if pleased 
and grateful, and anxious to show his satisfaction 
for any thing that had given his young mistress so 
much pleasure. 

“ Now, please, Mr. Robert, do go the old road. 


60 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


round by the waterfall, to make the ride a little 
longer, it is so pretty there — don’t you think so ? 
Aunt Agnes likes to go there,” said she, coaxingly. 
I don’t have many rides now that Miss Harris is 
here. I have to learn my lessons all day, and when 
they are done, there never is any room for me since 
she is here. She always wants to go, and then 
mamma says, ‘ Lizzie, my love, you will stay, like a 
good little girl, and let Miss Harris have your seat,’ 
and then I don’t want to cry, though I feel as if I 
couldn’t help it sometimes ; for if I do, mamma looks 
so sorry, and says, ‘ I thought my little daughter 
was a woman.’ Sometimes Aunt Agnes coaxes 
mamma to let me go, and she holds me on her lap — 
and the other day she staid at home herself, be- 
cause it crowded the carriage too much ; and then 
mamma said, ‘ Oh, Agnes, you indulge that child 
so, you will make her selfish,’ and that spoiled all my 
f nice ride. I wasn’t happy to have her stay home 
for me, and I should not like to be a selfish little 
girl. Miss Harris don’t like to walk with us, she 
goes with Mr. Gilford, and says she cannot be 
troubled with children. I don’t like her half as 
well as I do Aunt Agnes.” 

“And why not?” said Robert, amused, and 
drawing the child on to talk of one so dear to him. 

“ I cannot tell why, exactly,” said she ; “ but her 
face looks so still and hard, her eyes don’t seem 
soft, and I never want to go and lay my head on 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


61 


her lap. I had much rather play with Nero, or tie 
ribbons in Pussy’s ears; and when she says, ‘ Sit StiU, 
Miss ! ’ ‘ Be quiet, not so much noise ! ’ it makes me 
ache all over to hear it, and I feel myself getting 
stiff directly ; but when Aunt Agnes says, ‘ Come 
here my pet,’ and puts her arms around me, and 
looks into my eyes and kisses me, it makes my 
heart beat so fast; and something tingles in the 
ends of my fingers when she lays her soft hand 
upon my head ; it makes me feel as I do when the 
sunshine comes into the school-room through the 
shutters, that Miss Harris always keeps so close, I 
want to creep up nearer to it. 

“I wish you could hear, Mr. Robert, how 
sweet and low her voice sounds when she says her 
prayers — there, it’s like said she, and direct- 

ing his attention to the murmur of the water. 
“ Sometimes, just in the middle of my prayers, I 
begin to think about the birds, and the pretty 
brook, and how cunningly the blood-root and the 
violets grow on the banks — ^is that very wicked, do 
you think ? ” 

“You must ask your Aunt Agnes — ^what does 
she say ? ” said Robert, evasively, and laughing at 
her earnest look. 

“ Why she kissed me, and said I was a droll little 
thing, and then I heard her say to herself— ‘ Holy 
Mother, pray for her.’ Then somehow I felt so 
happy and safe, that I fell fast asleep — and I always 
6 


62 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


do feel sure they will, when she asks the Blessed 
Virgin and my guardian angel to watch over me ; 
don’t you think so too ? ” 

Robert pressed the child to his bosom, but did 
not reply, but he felt the same certainty that she 
expressed. 

“ There is another reason why I don’t love Miss 
Harris as well — that is, because she told Fanny ‘ she 
must not make the sign of the cross, nor imitate 
any of Miss Agnes’ popish practices, but must go 
to church with her every Sunday, and listen to 
what Mr. Gilford said, and not go among those low, 
ignorant Catholics that Miss Agnes goes to see.’ 

“ How are they low and ignorant, Mr. Robert ? 
is it because they are poor? is it wicked to be 
poor?” said Lizzie; but without waiting for his 
answ^er, she continue, “I am sure Thomas and 
Kitty O’Brien, too, seem to know a great many 
things that I like to hear. Kitty has such nice 
pictures hanging up in her cottage, it made me 
sorry when I looked at them, and I cried when she 
told me all about what they meant, how they bound 
Jesus Christ to a pillar, and scourged him till the 
blood flowed ; and how they made him carry the 
great cross ; it is all there, Mr. Robert, where he 
fell three times — and when they crucified him, and 
took him down to lay him in the new tomb. Oh ! 
how sad and sorrowful his poor mother looks to see 
those cruel men put her son to death. Kitty says, 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


63 


when she has trouble, she looks at those pictures, 
and when she has thought about them for a little 
while, it takes it all out of her heart. I love to go 
and see them ; how can it he naughty to go there ? 
Kitty never tells me any thing had, hut often talks 
to me about her little child that went to heaven, 
for Kitty says it was baptized, and that it is with 
the angels now. She don’t cry about it any more, 
because she said she gave it back to God to dwell 
with him, and to pray for its poor mother who is 
here.” 

But we must leave Lizzie to enjoy her ride, and 
Robert her prattle, while we follow Mrs. Maitland 
as she pursued her way homewards, deeply en- 
grossed by the mingled emotions produced by the 
events of the afternoon. 

The sun, fast sinking behind the hills, poured a 
flood of golden light upon every object, tinging 
the tall evergreens, and bringing out the delicate 
tracery of the leafless maples and beeches that reared 
their graceful branches against the sky, which bril- 
liant and gorgeous appeared, where the few clouds 
that floated above the horizon caught the reflection 
of the setting sun, as if crucibles of molten gold 
had been poured out there, and lay scattered in 
glittering and confused masses. The mountains 
stood out gray and shadowing, as if, like the por- 
tals of the grave, waiting to swallow up and hide 
for ever this vision of splendor ; or, like a monu- 


64 


LIZZIE MAITLAJSTD. 


ment on a battle-field, which remains cold and un- 
moved, to mark the spot after some imposing and. 
solemn pageant has passed away. 

If good Mrs. Maitland was not as keenly alive 
to all this beauty, as some more delicately-strung 
nature, she was fully sensible of the comforts of her 
own home, as she drew near, and glanced around 
at the well-filled barns, warm stables, and substan- 
tial outhouses ; the capacious woodsheds, with the 
huge piles of clear, clean-looking maple wood, laid 
up in even rows, givmg one an enviable feeling of 
comfort and independence. 

If there were no longer roses to gather out of 
doors, there was every thing within to make one 
forget, or at least, not regret them ; and it was with 
a feehng something similar to a mother’s, who sees 
her children snugly and warmly laid in their little 
beds for the night, that she glanced over the garden- 
^ wall at the delicate plants, carefully protected and 
sheltered by their straw coverings from the frosts of 
the approaching winter. The well-filled and care- 
fully tended green-house afibrded refreshing sights 
and delicious odors during the long and severe 
IsFew England winter, but which she had no cause 
to dread, though the chill blasts should howl 
around, and cause the stripped branches to creak 
and moan as it whirled the browned and withered 
leaves against the casement ; the wind cannot enter 
the warm double sashes. 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


65 


One less interested than Mrs. Maitland, would 
have rejoiced over the plentiful heaps of hard, 
shining apples, laid away to be brought out in mid- 
winter, juicy and mellowed, with the beautiful red 
stripes penetrating and tinging the crisp and tender 
pulp ; the purple and luscious grapes, too plenti- 
ful to be consumed, carefully put away in layers of 
cotton, to tempt the appetite with their delicious 
flavor, and to ornament the dinner table on some 
pleasant f6te day, or some family re-union, and 
make them forget the frosts and snows without. 

Perhaps she has a vision of Thanksgiving Day — 
which is fast approaching — or, it may be of Agnes’s 
wedding day. And, already, in her busy imagina- 
tion, the well-fattened turkeys and chickens are gra- 
cing the table ; the long, clear, white stalks of celery, 
carefully curled, are hanging over the sides of the 
tall glass, that does not conceal the clear stems, 
free from rust or blemish, and all the other rich 
products of her garden, spread, with New England 
profusion, over the hospitable board. 

Her thoughts were diverted by these and other 
pleasant associations that crowded into her mind, 
as she reached her home. She sent Fanny with a 
message to Agnes, while, with the careful fore- 
thought of the provident mistress, she went herself 
around to the back porch to see if her directions 
had been attended to, in sheltering a favorite and 
delicate rose vine that graced the portico. Her at- 
6 * 


66 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


tention was attracted by a light in the school-room. 
There was nothing unusual in a light at that season 
of the year, only it was an uncommon circumstance 
in that part of the house at that hour. She entered, 
and passing quickly along, opened the door of the 
apartment, and stood for an instant in sorrowful 
amazement, rooted to the spot. Seated at a table 
with an open volume lying before them, with their 
backs towards the door, sat Mr. Gilford and Miss 
Harris; the arm of the reverend gentleman was 
around her waist, and tenderly supported her 
figure ; her drooping head rested on his shoulder. 
As Mrs. Maitland turned to make a hasty retreat 
from the apartment, she beheld in the door-way, 
which she had left open behind her, Mrs. Gilford’s 
pale and haggard face. As she hurried past her, 
the sound of many footsteps and heavy tramping 
in the passage beyond, and the voice of Agnes cry- 
ing in piteous accents, “ Oh ! what can have hap- 
pened?” caused Mrs. Maitland to dart forward 
with the speed of hghtning. 

When she reached the dining-room she saw 
Lizzie, pale and inanimate, borne in the arms of 
Father Bailey, and Robert Davis stretched lifeless 
on the floor, the blood flowing from a deep gash 
on his forehead. 



Our hopes and fears 

Start up alarmed, and o’er life’s narrow verge 
Look down — on what— a fathomless abyss, 

A dark Eternity — how surely ours I 


Fathey Bailey was returning after a long day’s ride 
from the discharge of some parochial duties. As 
he slowly descended the mountain, he had watched 
the glowing sunset, his thoughts introverted, while 
his eyes wandered over the landscape ; many and 
varied were the recollections and associations awak- 
ened by the scene. Judging from the calm and 
peaceful expression of his countenance, the subject 
of his musingswasof no painful or unpleasant nature. 
As he came within sight of the spire of his humble 
little church, and his eyes rested on the cross that 
ornamented its summit, he lifted his hat and bowed 
his head reverently. Pausing a moment before 
entering the little glen, he listened to the soimd of 
the waterfall. 

The clatter of a horse’s hoofs dashing over the 
gravelly roads, at what seemed a fearful speed, 
aroused his attention; directly a child’s wild cry 
of terror, mingled with the deep tones of a man’s 
voice, then a crushing, heavy sound, caused the 


68 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


good man, without a moment’s faltering, to urge 
his tired beast into a quick trot, which brought 
him, in the space of a few seconds, in view of a 
scene, that for an instant appalled even his stout 
heart. 

In the insensible child before him, he instantly 
recognized the young Lizzie Maitland, and drag- 
ging by the bridle, was the bleeding form of Robert 
Davis. As he came up, the lifeless hand fortunately 
relaxed its hold, and the frightened animal rushed, 
snorting and panting, down the steep and stony 
pathway. To descend from his horse and ascertain 
that life was not yet extinct in the wounded man — 
to take the pale, insensible child in his arms to the 
nearest house, and seek assistance for Robert, was 
but the work of a few moments. 

Lizzie seemed stunned by the fall, and the good 
man could not tell the extent of the injury; he 
succeeded in obtaining immediate assistance, for 
they were but a short distance from the cottage of 
Micky O’Brien, and grieving hearts and tender 
hands speedily bore Robert from the scene we have 
just described, to the house of Mr. Maitland. 

To gratify Lizzie, he had extended his ride some 
distance through the glen, and, returning, a hare 
suddenly crossing the path had frightened the high- 
spirited animal ; alarmed, he had darted away at 
the top of his speed. Robert, embarrassed by the 
child, could not guide or control him as usual, and 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


69 


dashing on at this fearful rate, he had stumbled, and 
thrown them both from the saddle. Robert, firmly 
holding the child in his grasp, had broken the fall 
for her so effectually, as to prevent any external 
injury ; for himself, it was far different — the path 
was steep and narrow, and he had been thrown 
with such violence against the rocks, that, besides 
the deep and fearful gash on his temple, his side 
was seriously injured, from striking a sharp rock 
on the roadside. Father Bailey, from his long ex- 
perience at the bedsides of the sick and dying, soon 
discovered that Robert’s wounds were of the most 
dangerous character. 

Agnes, with quivering lip, and a woe at her 
heart too crushing for tears, besought him not to 
leave her in this fearful moment. “ Oh ! if he were 
to die thus ! ” said she, clasping her hands with a 
look of anguish words were powerless to describe, 
“ without the sacred rite of baptism ; and I know 
that he has long desired to receive it. Oh ! God, 
spare him ! Holy Mother, assist thy child in this 
dreadful hour ! ” 

She hung over his pillow for hours, scarcely 
breathing, watching for some returning animation. 
All that she could discover was, that he still breathed, 
but no sign of returning consciousness alleviated 
the agonizing suspense. 

“ Oh that his senses may be restored, if only 
long enough to receive the last sacraments ! ” mur- 


70 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


mured Agnes, and she threw herself on her knees 
beside his couch. 

“ Daughter, be comforted,” said Father Bai- 
ley. “ God will, I trust, grant our prayers ; but 
you must remember whose hand has sent this sore 
affliction. He can assuage the wound his provi- 
dence has made ; and kneeling beside her he said 
the prayers for the sick and dying. 

Just as he concluded, Robert opened his eyes, 
and murmured “ Agnes.” 

In an instant she was on her feet beside him, 
her ear bent down to catch the faintest whisper. 

“ Agnes, send for Father Bailey. I am dying,” 
said he, faintly, and with great difficulty. “ I wish 
to make my confession, and receive baptism.” 

“ He is here already, my love,” said she. “ Are 
you able to speak to him ? ” 

“ Oh that I had not delayed so long ! my 
./ hours are numbered. Where is Lizzie ? ” 

Agnes assured him that she lived. “ Thank 
God ! ” he murmured. “ And her mother, can she 
forgive me the sorrow and anguish I have brought 
upon her ? ” 

Agnes pressed his hand, and asked him if she 
should leave him now, alone with Father Bailey ; 
he signified his desire that she should do so. She 
sought her own room, and casting herself on her 
knees, gave vent to her anguish in a flood of tears, 
the first she had been able to shed. 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


71 


Long and fervently she prayed for strength to 
bear this burden ; heartily she thanked God, that 
her prayer had been answered, and that his reason 
was restored for even a short time ; and for her 
sister she prayed, that her child might be spared, 
and this sorrow averted. 

She arose calm and strengthened, and went to 
seek her sister at Lizzie’s bedside. The child had 
sank into a slumber, but was restless and feverish, 
and uttered low moans, turning her head from side 
to side. Agnes bent down and kissed the flushed 
little cheek, and her tears gushed anew over her 
darling. Oh ! who can tell the anguish of her torn 
heart through that dreadful night, as she knelt be- 
side the young sufierer, awaiting a summons to 
Robert’s bedside. 

The morning’s dawn found Robert somewhat 
stronger ; he was able to converse quite freely, and 
in Agnes’s heart the blessing hope sprung up, 
that he might yet be restored. He seemed relieved 
from all sufiering, and liis eye beamed with a calm 
and holy light. To Agnes’s eager question, the 
doctor shook his head sadly, — he knew her hopes 
were false, but he had not courage to tell her so. 

Robert expressed great anxiety to have the 
holy rites of baptism and communion administered 
without delay, and requested the presence of Mr. 
and Mrs. Maitland; they came, and, standing 
around his bedside in the early dawn, the servant 


72 


T.TZy.TTC MAITLAND. 


of Christ poured over him the regenerating waters 
of baptism, that made him a child of God, an heir 
of heaven, and enfolded him in the arms of our 
Holy Mother the Church. 

For a few moments he lay with his eyes closed, 
and his hands clasping a crucifix on his breast ; his 
countenance seemed to beam with a celestial ra- 
diance ; he lay like one entranced. Unclosing his 
eyes, he stretched out his hand to Mr. Maitland, 
who drew near, bent down beside him, and sobbed 
aloud. “ Ah ! my friend, no need for tears, except 
those of joy, — rejoice with me, and for me; com- 
fort her, who is so dear to me. Agnes, my be- 
loved ! joy of my life ! Thou wilt not weep for 
me now, as. for one lost. Dearest love, let this con- 
sole thee, through the remainder of life’s pilgrim- 
age, that it was thy gentle influence, and thy ten- 
der counsels, that first guided my wayward foot- 
/ steps to this heavenly light — and now,” he ex- 
claimed, “ I see clearly, like one from whose eyes 
the scales have already dropped. It is worth more 
than all these earthly sufferings to attain this joy; 
and, beloved of my heart, now, on the threshold 
of Eternity I say, I would not return, even to 
thee ; but thou wilt come to me — we shall not be 
parted, only the veil of the body will be between 
thy spirit and mine, now that the waters of regen- 
eration have washed away all my sins. Our Blessed 
J esus,” he tried to bow his head at the name, “ will 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


73 


comfort and support thee in thy wanderings, and 
bring thee home at last. Shed no bitter tears, like 
those who have no hope ; weep, love, if ’twill ease 
thy torn breast, but let thy tears fall like the soft 
rain drops, to refresh the pathway of some toil- 
worn pilgrim ; let thy gentle hand and tender coun- 
sel cheer and guide others, as they have me, to the 
light. ’Tis t/i^ mission, sweet one ! ” said he, 
fixing his eyes upon her. “ ’Tis thy mission ! 
from God himself, to bind up the wounds of the 
suffering, to comfort the broken-hearted. God 
himself will guide thee, — have no concern. He will 
guard thee — and He will comfort thee. Ah ! my 
beloved, the spouse I leave thee is more tender, 
more faithful, than he whom thou must resign.” 

Agnes stood before him, her head bowed down, 
and her hands clasped together, listening as if to 
words of inspiration. She did not weep, she did 
not even tremble, — she seemed as if the consola- 
tion and support he promised, had already entered 
her soul. She stood there, like one who has al- 
ready completed some mighty sacrifice, and is 
ready, nerved for the struggle. 

God help thee, maiden ! thou hast need of all 
thy courage to bear thee up, amid the toils and 
discouragements of the rough pathway before thee. 

Mrs. Maitland gazed with tearful eyes upon 
her sister, and her dying friend, and in her heart 
acknowledged there must be some mysterious 
7 


74 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


power in that religion, which could thus sustain, 
in so trying an hour. 

Mr. Maitland sat with his hand shading his 
eyes, close beside the dying Robert ; his words 
sank deep into his heart, — he knew the strength of 
the tie about to be severed, and he felt with his 
wife, the power of that faith which could surmount 
such a trial. 

Father Bailey was obliged to leave, but prom- 
ised to return very soon, and administer extreme 
unction. 

Agnes watched beside his couch ; he had fallen 
into a light slumber, she could not leave his side 
even to take a little rest. From time to time Mrs. 
Maitland went to and fro, to bring tidings of 
Lizzie. 

Poor Mrs. Gilford came also, with her pale, sad 
/ face, to watch beside her, and offer her assistance ; 
but these moments were too precious, — ^no induce- 
ment could win her from the bedside of Robert, 
while he lived ; she felt each moment was an age, 
that she was compelled to leave him. 

Mr. Maitland looked in astonishment at Agnes — 
he knew her warm and affectionate heart, and the 
depth of her attachment to an object so worthy; 
but he did not comprehend all that sustained that 
frail and delicate creature, under circumstimces so 
heart-rending ; he did not understand the faith 
that could prompt such a generous offeiing as she 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


75 


was prepared to make. At that deathbed she had 
already resolved, from henceforth, to dedicate her- 
self, and all she possessed, to the service of God. 
The world was already forgotten, all its allurements 
were to be as nothing to her ; she would be the 
spouse of Christ. ’Twould be a vain task to at- 
tempt to dissuade her ; her vow was already regis- 
tered in Heaven, — Robert had spoken truly ; God 
had given her strength. 

When Father Bailey returned, Robert was 
awake, and still entirely conscious, and quite calm ; 
he greeted him with a glad smile, and requested 
Mr. Maitland to remain, while Father Bailey pro- 
ceeded to administer the last consolation that the 
Church has to offer to her departing children ; the 
last solemn benediction was given, the sobs of the 
living were hushed, that the tranquillity of the de- 
parting soul might not be disturbed. Every fea- 
ture was radiant with the sublime emotions that 
animated his soul. Suddenly, and as if impelled by 
some unseen and celestial influence, and forgetful 
of the poor clay that still enthralled the soul, he 
broke out and sang in a clear, low tone, a hymn of 
thanksgiving ; as he ceased, the rising sun streamed 
through the casement, and rested like a halo 
around his dying head, as if in token of the ac- 
ceptance of the holocaust. Unclosing his eyes, they 
rested for a moment, with a gleam of tenderness, 
upon the group beside him. Father Bailey held 


16 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


the crucifix before him ; he fixed his eyes upon it, 
murmured the names of Jesus, Mary, and closed 
them for ever upon this world. 

Father Bailey and Agnes sank upon their knees, 
while he recited, in a low voice, the prayers for the 
departing soul, while it winged its flight to another 
sphere. Just at that moment the glorious orb of 
day burst forth in all its splendor, and illumed by 
its refulgence the apartment so lately consecrated 
by the presence of visitants and messengers from 
the unseen world. 




CHAPTER VI. 

“ I knew each lane, and every alley green, 

Dingle or bushy dell of this wild wood. 

And every bosky bower from side to side,” 

Ten years had rolled away, bringing many changes 
to those in whom we hope our readers feel some- 
thing of an interest. A horseman, young, and in 
the very flush and pride of youth and health, 
wound his way through the secluded valley, where 
the thriving little village of Maitlandville was 
situated. The smoke from the forges still as- 
cended, and curled as black and dense as years 
ago, and except that the number of the habita- 
tions had multiplied, and an appearance of a more 
thriving and increasing population, the scene was 
unchanged. 

The little stream rippled as restless and noisy 
as ever, and the waterfall murmured as of old, 
and all looked peaceful and pleasant. 

Around the cottage door of Mickey O’Brien 

7 * 


IS 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


were gathered to enjoy the sunset, and rest from 
the toils of the day, a glad and happy group. Kitty, 
herself, looked almost as young as ten years ago ; 
she had grown stout and ruddy, and but for the 
five or six healthy looking youngsters gathered 
around, one would have scarcely guessed her age. 

“ Whist, childer, whist ! cannot ye ha’ dun we 
yees skelpin’ there, and let a body hear what the 
gintleman is saying ? ” said Kitty, rising, the better 
to listen to the handsome young horseman, who 
had ridden up to the door, and was asking ques- 
tions of the Maitland family, and of the neighbor- 
hood, that showed him no stranger in the vicinity. 

“ It is many a year since I have seen any mem- 
ber of it — how does it fare with them ? ” 

“ It cannot be many years, and you so young, 
sir,” said Kitty, glancing with an approving smile 
at the black hair and bright eyes of the young 
stranger ; but, continued she, “ it’s pleased they’ll 
be to see ye, I’m shure of it, for they’re is nothing 
changed of the old way of welcome to the stranger ; 
God’s blessing be wid ’em all ; but it’s the kind 
family they are to the needy and distressed crathurs 
around thim, whoever they may be; since Miss 
Agnes wint away, we missed her kind face and her 
soft voice.” 

“Where has Miss Agnes gone?” said the 
stranger, interrupting Kitty. 

Och ! dear, though, did ye not know that after 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


79 


Misther Robert died — God rest bis soul ! — and all 
the family got to be good Catholics, after that Mr. 
Gilford wint his ways — Mr. Maitland consented, 
at last, to part with Miss Agnes, to be a Sister of 
Charity, and it’s eight years, coming spring, since she 
i\dnt her ways. Then three years gone Miss Lizzie 
and Miss Fanny have been away at the convent, 
gitting their laming ; but they’re home agin now, 
and two prettier lasses are not to be seen in all the 
country round.” 

“I can well believe that,” said the stranger, 
“for when I saw them last. Miss Lizzie was as 
bright and pretty a child as one could wish to see.” 

“ May be it’s well acquainted ye are in these 
parts, and not long since ye were there?” said 
Kitty, a little curiously. 

“ Kitty, have you forgotten me then so entirely ? ” 
said he, taking off his hat, and grasping her hand 
cordially. 

“ Mr. Henry Sumner ! ” cried she, looking him 
full in the face, and shaking his hand warmly ; “ I 
was shure those eyes were not strange to me, wid 
the mischief in thim plain as ever. Oh, Misther 
Henry, ye’ve bin long away, far enough, too, since 
I saw ye, but I’m thinking how surprised and glad 
they’ll be, up at the old house, yonder ; but where 
have ye bin aU this long time ? ” 

“ I went first to finish my studies in Europe, 
and then I travelled with my father— and now I 


80 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


am home again, to settle down somewhere ; per- 
haps I may get to be a farmer — but first I must have 
a wife.” 

Kitty shook her head and laughed ; “ I’m think- 
ing,” said she, “ that it’s not farming will suit the 
likes of ye, unless you’ve much changed. A pretty 
wife, I dare say, ye’s will like well enough, but un- 
less you’re a good Catholic, it’s not for Miss Lizzie ye 
need be seeking ; she’ll nivir take any other body. 
Some of the good folks say that they think she’d 
be following her Aunt Agnes, only for her father.” 

“ I hope she will not bury herself that way,” 
said Henry, quickly, “there is too much in the 
world for her ; it was different with Miss Agnes, 
she had a terrible grief to darken life, and to make 
her willing to quit the world.” 

“Oh! Mr. Henry, you cannot think that the 
world is dark for one so good and pious as Miss 
Agnes. Our good Lord does not make the path 
dark and sorrowful for them that follow him so 
closely; He gives them such joys and consola- 
tions as is seldom found by thim who render him 
cold service, and divide their hearts wid the vani- 
ties of this world. Our blessed Lord will nivir 
forget- to reward thim who make him sich a gener- 
ous offering of life and fortune as our sweet Miss 
Agnes did ; it’s only us as is left behind to struggle 
wid the burden of life, as wearies for the sight of 
her.” 


LIZZIE MAITLAND, 


81 


“ But, Kitty,” said Henry, wishing to change 
the subject, “ the world does not seem to have been 
a very heavy burden to you ; you look as young and 
strong as ever, and as thriving as need be ; and 
have a fine family growing up to help you — Mickey, 
i I suppose, is as kind as ever ? ” 

“ Oh yes, thank God ! I can tell of more blessings 
received than hardships endured, for meself and 
j mine,” said Kitty, “ thanks to the goodness of the 
I master and misthres up yonder. Mickey earns a good 

I support for me and the childer ; and for the bit larn- 
! ing they have at the schule beyant. Mister Maitland 
pays the master himself, and Father Bailey taches 
j ’em the catechism ; and wouldn’t I have the black 
i ungrateful heart to complain ; and Mickey and me 
I wid all these blessings to thank God for, to say 
j nothing of the health and strength he sends us 
beside ? ” 

j “ I think you would, indeed, Kitty ; but I must 
! bid you good evening, and try the welcome you 
are so certain of my finding up at the old house.” 

So saying, and without waiting to listen to 
Kitty’s Godspeed and good wishes, he remounted 
his horse and turned in the direction of Mr. Mait- 
land’s house, whither we will precede him. 

Seated in a large arm-chair on the piazza, to 
enjoy the cool evening breeze, Mr. Maitland sat 
reading the newspaper; the soft summer breeze 
played about his temples, gently waving the locks, 


82 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


still shining and glossy, though occasionally inter- 
spersed with a thread of silver; — the same kind 
smile, as of olden times, played over his features ; 
close beside him, stretched out, and dozing com- 
fortably, lay old Nero, showing visible signs of age, 
and assuming some of the privileges conferred by 
it, and taking to himself, with a feeling of confident 
security, the most desirable place. Old Tabby, the 
cat, had been succeeded by a younger favorite, who 
purred demurely, at a respectful distance from 
Nero— though every now and then she walked 
quietly amid the group, rubbing her sleek sides 
against Mrs. Maitland’s dress, who was bushy 
knitting. 

The flight of time was scarcely visible on her 
comely countenance. She had a more settled, 
matronly expression, as her eyes glanced fondly, 
and with the same unselfishness as of old, from one 
to the other of the dear group around her. Now 
she regarded Fanny, a graceful girl of eighteen, 
who sat on the steps of the piazza, with some piece 
of ornamental embroidery in her hands, and her 
fair face bent over it, the rich color varying in her 
soft cheeks at every movement of her light figure. 
Now she turned to follow Lizzie’s airy footsteps, 
who, with a water-pot in her hands, was flitting, as 
usual, up and down the gravelled walks, or stoop- 
ing to tie up some favorite flower. How bright 
and lovely she looked as she knelt on the ground, 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


83 


j the sunlight occasionally glancing over the soft, 
I wavy locks, for her sun-bonnet hanging at the back 
j of her neck, left the rich brown hair and pretty 
I head exposed to view. She was paler, and not so 
i strikingly and brilliantly beautiful as Fanny, but 
I her clear blue eyes sparkled and flashed at each 
I changing emotion, or settled into a tender, dove- 
I like gentleness when any thing stired the depths 
I of her soul, away in whose recesses were hidden 
i emotions of which Fanny’s colder temperament 
I had no conception. Mr. Maitland understood fully 
I his child’s lovely and generous nature, and between 
j the father and daughter there existed an afiection 
i rarely equalled. 

I Mr. Maitland raised his eyes to see the occasion 
j of the bustle and little shout raised by Lizzie, as 
' she scampered ofi* to arrest Father Bailey, whom 
she saw passing the gate. The good man rarely 
got freely past when seen by any one of the inmates 
of the house. Lizzie came laughing back, looking 
well pleased at the prize she said she had captured, 
and handed him over to her father to be his jailor. 

“Now, to shorten your captivity and to make 
your .peace sooner, you must endeavor to persuade 
papa how necessary it is for his healthy that his 
family, and especially his daughter, should see 
Niagara and the Lakes this summer. Your elo- 
quence never fails to convince papa on any point, 

I and I am desirous to have you test it on this.” 


i 


84 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


Father Bailey declared, laughingly, that he 
would do nothing that would be so directly con- 
trary to his inclinations and interests as to persuade 
her father to absent himself, with his family, foi* a 
month or two.” 

Lizzie was about to make some protest, when 
the attention of all the party was attracted by the 
appearance of a stranger riding up to the gate — 
and our friend Henry Sumner was now recognized 
and joyfully welcomed by all. Many questions on 
both sides were answered, and congratulations ex- 
changed, and judging from the heightened color, 
their meeting afforded satisfaction to the young 
people. The roses on Fanny’s cheeks were deep- 
ened, and the brilliant sparkle of her dark eyes 
told that the new comer had, at least, made no un- 
favorable impression on her young heart. The 
hours flew unheeded by, on gilded wings, as recol- 
lections of olden times were revived. 

After a few days the subject of the proposed 
\ trip to Magara was revived — and it was finally 
settled, to the satisfaction of the young people at 
least, that Henry Sumner was to join the expedition, 
and that early in the ensuing month they were to 
start. 

Mrs. Maitland protested that it was too sudden 
an affair to allow her ample time to arrange her 
household matters, and make the necessary prepara- 
tions of their wardrobes, but her objections were 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


85 


i 

I 

! 


I, 

i 

I 

i 


I 


finally all overcome, and the matter was settled. 
Lizzie was in a fever of excitement, her head and 
heart were full of schemes ; and what young girl of 
seventeen can he expected to look calmly forward 
to her first pleasure excursion, after three years in 
a convent, and Niagara, too ? — the dream of her 
youthful imagination about to be reahzed. No 
one seemed to take it so coolly as Fanny ; either 
she was preoccupied with some other more absorb- 
ing emotion, or else she was very indifferent to 
Lizzie’s highly drawn and exaggerated anticipa- 
tions of the happiness expected. 

Fanny seemed to have acquired an unaccount- 
able love of nature, for she had actually, on more 
than one occasion, laid aside one of those intermin- 
able pieces of embroidery that oppressed Lizzie so 
much, to stroll with Henry along the water’s edge, 
under the shade of the old sycamore that skirted 
the stream. 

The time flew swiftly by ; Mr. Maitland watched 
with a pained heart, the increase and progress of 
this intimacy with the son of his old friend ; and 
although he forbore to express any uneasiness he 
felt, yet he thought that he had, upon more than 
one occasion, heard infidel sentiments fall from the 
lips of Henry. It would in itself have been a deep 
giief to him, but when he thought he perceived a 
warm interest springing up in the heart of his 
brother’s orphan child, he trembled for her happi- 


8 


86 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


ness ; he knew Fanny’s unyielding temper when 
her affections were strongly enlisted, and he shrank 
from the conflict of feeling should his suspicion 
prove really well founded. Mr. Maitland was too 
kind and just to condemn any one on a mere sus- 
picion ; so resolving to scrutinize more narrowly his 
sentiments, he continued to treat Henry Sumner 
with his former cordiality. 

Henry had spent three years at a German uni- 
versity, and had embraced so much of the per- 
nicious philosophy pervading those institutions, that 
his religion had become a sort of rationalism ; he 
refused to believe whatever he could not reduce to 
his mode of reasoning, and all who could not agree 
with him, he considered as not far enough advanced 
in cultivation to stand on the same platform^'^ as, 
in his favorite phraseology, he styled his peculiar 
mode of viewing religious and physiological sub- 
jects; and it would have been amusing to Mr. 
Maitland, had not the topic been so sacred, and the 
\ consequences involved so serious to the happiness 
of those he loved, to listen to the discussions he 
sometimes had with Father Bailey. 

Like most young people, he forgot the age and 
experience of Father Bailey, and seemed to think 
his own superior sagacity, and the superior intelli- 
gence of the age, and the facilities for penetrating 
into subjects at the present day, more than a 
counterbalance for all these ; and Anally, one day, 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


87 


in the warmth of an argument, he said to Father 
Bailey, that the God he proposed for his adoration 
was a “ cruel and arbitrary being, utterly unworthy 
the love or confidence of his creatures — and so un- 
reasonably exacting, that if he existed, as the Bible 
presented him, he could not love such a being, and 
that he was not bound to render him homage or 
submission.” 

Fanny was frequently present at these discus- 
sions, and Mr. Maitland, with his watchful, father’s 
love, trembled for her happiness, when he saw that 
the young girl was sometimes staggered by his 
ai-guments, and that blinded by her affection for 
the handsome young philosopher, she failed to de- 
tect their fallacy, or to discover the pride and self- 
love that had entrapped him in the fascinations of 
this philosophy, this religion of the senses, which 
had swallowed up the more sublime faith of the 
Catholic — that teaches him to submit, with child- 
like confidence and humility, to be guided by the 
hand of a Father — the faith that presents Jesus 
the God-man for our imitation, and teaches us, that 
instead of attempting to wrest our salvation from 
the hands of God, whence it flows to us as a free-gift, 
purchased at the inestimable price of his blood, on 
the condition of faith and obedience on our pai*t — 
and far from setting up human reason against the 
revelations of Almighty God, and avoiding the 
arrogant presumption of declaring the Bible to be 


88 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


the whole rule of faith, accepts with equal docility 
the teachings of the Apostles, and the traditions 
of the Church established by them, and sealed by 
their blood. 

Many prayers were offered by Mr. Maitland 
for the son of his friend and the child of his adop- 
tion — and that his own young daughter might be 
preserved from the enemy around her pathway ; and 
many thanksgivings he poured out, that he and his 
household had been brought into the ark of safety. 

“ I cannot submit my reason,” said Henry, one 
day ; “ and I am astonished that a man like you, 
sir, with your learning and penetration, can accept 
the dogmas of a body of men, or, of a Council, as 
you term it, and submit to be guided by them when 
you could be guided by your own intellect to reach 
a much higher platform.” 

“ And yet, my young friend,” said Father Bai- 
ley, mildly, “ you remember Saul of Tarsus, with a 
much more lofty intellect, brought up at the feet 
of Gamaliel, and with gifts and advantages such as 
few men can boast, was guided by, and sought coun- 
sel from Peter, the fisherman of Galilee, When 
his heart was touched by the finger of God, and 
his boasted intellect illumined by the light of faith 
and humility (both free-gifits of Almighty God), he 
trembled and was afraid, and shrank from following 
the guidance of his own reason, lest it should plunge 
him, like Lucifer, into an abyss of eternal '^oe.” 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


89 


“ And that, also,” said the rash young man, “ is 
another of the inconsistencies that your faith pro- 
poses. You represent God as omniscient and all- 
powerful, and yet, as guilty of the folly and short- 
sightedness of creating a being to dispute his 
authority with him, as did Lucifer. Oh no ! ” said 
he, triumphantly, “ I cannot believe God capable 
of any such inconsistency, and so I must either 
doubt the whole of the pretended revelation, or 
suppose Him, as I do, a dilferent Being, and pos- 
sessed of different attributes from those you ascribe 
to Him.” 

“ Taking your own view of the subject,” said 
Father Bailey, “ that does not involve the matter 
of consistency, as you suppose. For Almighty God 
created Lucifer, like others of the beings of his 
universe, with the power of choosing evil; he 
could have chosen happiness like the rest of the 
angels, or he could be arrogant and presumptuous, 
and lose heaven by the indulgence of his pride, as 
thousands of human beings will, I fear, in attempts 
to make themselves equal with God . The Almighty 
chose, for his own honor and glory, to create him, 
as he did all men and angels, with this free-will ; 
for, could he have been honored by the service 
of beings who had no power to refrain from offer- 
ing him this homage, it would have been the 
compulsory honor of a slave, not the pure, true 
devotion of a free and loving heart. Lucifer was 
8 * 


90 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


not compelled by any necessity to this arrogance , 
and the eye of faith, my dear young friend, reads 
from it a very different lesson, from that you have 
learned. God grant that another light may dawn 
on your intellect.” 

So saying. Father Bailey rose to take his leave, 
with the expression of many good wishes for a 
prosperous journey and a safe return. 

Lizzie followed him to the door, and told him 
he would see her father and herself at early mass 
the next morning ; for as they did not leave until 
ten o’clock, there would be time to go, and she 
wished to hear mass and receive holy communion 
before commencing what, to her, seemed so impor- 
tant an affair as a trip to Niagara. 

She lingered on the piazza, musing over many 
things : pleasant they were ; for, in her short life, 
shielded as it had been by the tenderness of such 
kind parents, many sorrows could not well come. 
Her eyes wandered lovingly over the little valley : 
the niountains ; the stream glittering in the moon- 
light ; the dark shadows of the old elms and syca- 
mores seemed deepening as she gazed, and she 
hardly could tell what it was that brought the tears 
into her eyes — truly it was a lovely scene. 

The moon, through the heavens, rode high on her way 

The stars clustered round her, their homage to pay ; 

But coyly she passed them, on earth shed her light, 

And chased from her bosom the gloom of the night ; 


LIZZIE MAITLAl^D. 


91 


While the hill and the valley, the mountain and glen, 

All caught and reflected her light back again : 

The stream as it flowed at the dark mountain’s base, 
Seemed hushed to repose by the smile on her face. 

Lizzie’s full heart was lifted far above this earth. 
She remembered the hand that had surrounded her 
with all these blessings, the tenderness that had 
shielded her from the first approach of care or 
sorrow, and she could not but ask Aozo she had 
deserved all this ; and there, under the wide canopy 
of heaven, she acknowledged her deep sense of her 
imworthiness and the boundless mercy and love 
that had followed her all her lifetime, and tears 
of unfeigned gratitude and love glistened in those 
clear blue eyes, as she meditated on Him, who 
purchased, by his own offering of himself, all these 
countless mercies and blessings— and the question, 
unbidden, arose in her own mind — ^What had she 
ever done to show her gratitude ? Had she — was 
she then fulfilling her destiny ? Was she accomplish- 
ing all that God required? Was there nothing 
she could give back to Him? No sacrifice, no 
offering she could bring? She thought of her 
Aunt Agnes, of her holy and pure life. Then of 
her beloved father — her mother — her own happy 
home — of the allurements of the world just open- 
ing on her young life, under such auspices as hers, 
and she wavered; then of Jesus — his love — his 
sufferings, the magnitude of his sacrifice, and in the 


92 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


elevation of that sublime emotion, she felt that she 
could make one generous offering of herself to 
Heaven, if God should call her. For a few mo- 
ments she stood wrapt in silence and contemplation 
— then she remembered her father — his love — his 
loneliness without her — and a gush of human tender- 
ness overpowered her, and she sank, sobbing, on 
her knees — “Holy Mother, pray for thy child,” 
said she, burying her face in her hands. 

“ Lizzie, my love, my darling, what ails thee ? ” 
said Mr. Maitland. “ What can «have grieved my 
precious child ? ” 

Lizzie sprang up and clasped her arms about 
her father’s neck. Mr. Maitland pressed her fondly 
to his bosom, and urged her to tell him what had 
caused her tears to flow. 

“ Another time, my dearest father, I will tell 
you all,” whispered she. 

Mr. Maitland forbore to urge her, and suffered 
her to weep unrestrainedly. “ My love,” said he 
at length, “ had you not better retire to your own 
room, and we will go together to early mass.” 

Lizzie kissed her father, and turned upon him 
a look so full of affection, and so full of meaning, 
that Mr. Maitland felt his very heartstrings vi- 
brate ; for a long time he remained on the piazza, 
lost in conjecture. What could have caused Lizzie’s 
agitation ? He thought of Henry — could she^ too, 
be interested in him, and feel her heart tom by 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


93 


this open announcement of his infidel principles ? 
Mr. Maitland felt certain that his child never would 
yield up her affections to one who avowed such sen- 
timents as Henry had expressed; could she be 
suffering from the preference shown for Fanny? 
Mr. Maitland did not feel satisfied with either of 
these solutions of his doubts ; he had observed noth- 
ing to strengthen such surmises. Once, indeed, a 
faint suspicion of the actual truth flashed across his 
mind, and who can blame him if his heart quailed 
and his cheek blanched ? but, like Abraham and 
Jeptha, he prayed for strength to consummate any 
sacrifice that God might require of him. But we 
will not draw aside the veil that hides the struggle 
in the father’s heart, it is too sacred — he loved his 
only child with all the depth of his nature — he 
was human, but he was a Christian, and he knew 
that Almighty God lays no burden on his children 
who trust him, which he does not give them grace 
and strength to endure. 

When Lizzie retired to her apartment, she 
I earnestly recommended herseff to the protection 
I of the Holy Mother of God and her Guardian 
I Angel, and besought their intercession that the will 
I of God might be revealed to her, and that she 
j might receive grace to enable her to pursue with 
an unshrinking step, whatever path of life she 
might be called to follow. She laid aside all 
i anxious thought and care, and made a devout 


94 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


preparation for her communion — and with a placid 
brow and peaceful heart, she was seated, reading a 
devotional book, when her cousin entered. Fanny- 
kissed her, and Lizzie folding her arms affectionately 
about her’ asked if she would not accompany her 
to holy communion. Fanny declined, and when 
Lizzie gently urged her request, she burst into 
tears, still declining, and alleging, as an excuse, 
that she had been so cold and indifferent to her 
duties of late that she was unfitted — and that she 
had not time then to make a suitable preparation — 
but promised to be more regular and attentive to 
her duties in future. 

Lizzie gave her a sorrowful but an affectionate 
glance, as she again kissed her for good-night, and 
breathed forth for her an earnest prayer, as she 
knelt to entreat the blessing and protection of 
heaven. 




CHAPTER VII. 

The morning sun was clear and bright — the day 
Avas lovely, and our friends found themselves seated 
in the cars, and after the usual amount of hurry 
and bustle — looking after baggage — struggling 
and scampering among the porters — bell-ringing — 
solicitations fi-om newspaper and book-venders — 
and all the confusion incident to the starting of a 
train, they were off — as a little child expressed it — 
“ See, mamma, now we are going, don’t you see the 
mountains over there have started ? ” — and so they 
were at last whirling along through the charming 
valleys, green fields, and pretty villages of New 
England. Lizzie amused herself for a little while 
taking a survey of her fellow-travellers, but as there 
was not much to interest her in this, she turned to 
the landscape, and continued to gaze, enraptured, 
over the varying and rapidly changing views ; her 
young heart beat with the fulness of content, she 


96 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


was at peace with herself and the whole world. 
Fanny was quiet, as usual, and absorbed in herself 
and Henry. Mrs. Maitland looked on, happy in 
the enjoyment of those she loved. 

If Mr. Maitland’s calm brow wore a more 
thoughtful expression than his wont, it was mingled 
with a look of resignation that spoke of an habitual 
dependence on God ; such confidence as only the 
true Christian, who trusts as a child, can feel. 

The day wore away, and our travellers found 
themselves, with a crowd of passengers, stopping 
for the night at a flourishing little village. As 
Mrs. Maitland was making her way through the 
passages that led to her sleeping apartment, she 
heard her name uttered in tones that seemed 
familiar. She turned to look at the speaker, and 
recognized Mrs. Gilford’s pale face. 

“ Mrs. Gilford, you here, in this crowd ? ” said 
she, involuntarily. 

“ Yes, it is indeed I. Can you give me a few 
moments in private ? ” 

“ Certainly — come with me to my own sleep- 
ing-room.” 

“ I am here,” said Mrs. Gilford, when they were 
alone, “ awaiting a summons, to what I suppose is 
the death-bed of my husband. You are aware,” 
said the poor woman, a deep flush overspreading 
her countenance, “that for several years I have 
been with my own friends, and have not seen my 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


97 


husband at all. A few days since I received a letter 
from a gentleman of this town, announcing Mr. 
Gilford’s illness, and stating, also, that they all 
considered his sickness mortal, and that if I wished 
to see him before his death, I had better come im- 
mediately.” 

“ Do I understand you to say that Mr. Gilford 
sent for you ? ” 

“No,” said Mrs. Gilford, “ he did not send for 
me — the message was not even by his request — ^he 
knows that I am here, but whether he will send for 
me, or see me at all, I don’t know. I have yet re- 
ceived no communication from him. God knows 
I never wronged him, and he knows how unjust 
and unkind are the accusations that he has some- 
times brought against me.” And she burst into 
tears. Mrs. Maitland allowed her tears to flow. 
Once before, and once only, had she opened her 
heart to Mrs. Maitland. 

“ Is there any thing that I can do for you, or 
that my husband can do to assist you ? ” she said 
at length. 

Mrs. Gilford replied, there was nothing at pre- 
sent ; “ but it is such a comfort, to meet a kind face 
in such a trying hour as this. My friends opposed 
my coming hither, as I had not been sent for by my 
husband, and were offended that I was willing to 
expose myself to another insulting neglect — but I 
would not show the semblance of an unforgiving 
9 


98 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


temper, for I do most freely forgive him all the sor- 
rows of my life caused by him, and I shall await 
here the result of his sickness.” 

Mrs. Maitland was aware of some of those dis- 
agreeable circumstances, and she had, herself, on 
more than one occasion, defended Mrs. Gilford from 
some unkind charges made against her, that had 
originated in the remarks made by Mr. Gilford 
himself; rumors had reached her, from time to 
time, of the course taken by Mr. GUford, but she 
had kindly allowed the veil of charity to rest over 
it, and for a year or two she had heard so little, 
that she hoped for the best, and really did., not 
know that the separation had been permanent. 

Mrs. Gilford informed her, that for the past 
year he had been preaching in a small town ad- 
joining, and had come up on a visit or business, 
and had been taken ill at the hotel, and had failed 
so rapidly, that it had not been deemed prudent to 
remove him. 

“And must we part thus? ” said she, sobbing 
bitterly. “ I have never striven so hard to please 
any one, and never succeeded so ill. Among my 
own friends I find no sympathy, for they cannot 
understand how a wife’s affections can still cling to 
a man from whom she has received so many slights. 
Ah ! they little know the desolation of my heart, 
and how it sprang up at the slightest return of the 
old kindness. 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


99 


“ After I lost my child, I had nothing left in the 
wide world — the loss of my property was nothing ; 
even at the death of my child, my husband’s love 
could have consoled me, for I felt that my little one 
had returned to God, from a world full of suffering, 
and I could not but acknowledge it was his gain. 
I wept for my own loss and desolation ; but, Mrs. 
Maitland, you, who have passed through life, 
guided and sustained and beloved by such a man 
as your husband, can form no idea of the bitter 
desolation of an affectionate, timid woman’s heart, 
when she knows that her husband’s affections are 
not hers — of the pangs that rend it, when she sees 
every little delicate attention that she has longed 
and sighed for, bestowed upon some other woman, 
and herself constantly treated with contempt and 
coldness. And the deep wound to her pride, when 
she must return penniless to the friends who opposed 
the union, and predicted just such a disastrous re- 
sult. The huhiiliation is so much the deeper from 
the contrast between his high professions, his posi- 
tion, and the actual state of affairs. Oh! can it 
be so ? ” she exclaimed. “ Will he continue obdu- 
rate, and add this last drop to my already over- 
flowing cup, and die without a word of reconcili- 
ation ? ” She covered her face with her hands and 
wept aloud. 

Vainly Mrs. Maitland tried to soothe or console 
her, her tears fell with hers. When she became 


100 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


more calm, Mrs. Maitland again begged if there 
was any assistance that she could render, that she 
would not hesitate to call on her. 

Mrs. Gilford said she was not entirely alone, 
that a young nephew had accompanied her, and 
that he would remain for a day or two, but if her 
husband should linger any length of time, she 
would not think of detaining him. She said, also, 
that some of the members of the congregation had 
been very kind to her, and that one of them had 
invited her to go to her house, but that she had de- 
clined for the present. She promised to let Mrs. 
Maitland know if she were in need of any substan- 
tial aid at any time. She bade her an affectionate 
adieu, and retired, as the Maitlands were to leave 
early the next morning. 

Poor Mrs. Maitland, her kind heart was so 
pained that she could not sleep. She sought her 
daughter’s apartment, and not finding either 
Fanny or Lizzie, she returned to the drawing-room 
and found Mr. Maitland and Lizzie engaged in con- 
versation, or rather listening to a new acquaintance, 
in the person of Dr. Singleton. 

He was a small man, somewhere about fifty — a 
bachelor, and consequently looking younger, and 
striving, by the suavity of his manners, and the 
care and attention bestowed on his toilet, to hide 
the ravages of time and the slights of nature, for 
she had not been very lavish in her gifts, physi- 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


101 


cally — that was readily to be seen — ^but the doctor 
had travelled a great deal, 'and was thoroughly 
impressed with a sense of his own cultivation, and 
the dignity acquired by his intimate acquaintance 
with the society of the old world (for he had en- 
joyed some facilities that gave him, in his own 
estimation, additional claims to consideration), but 
which had failed to render him half as agreea- 
ble or brilliant as he fancied himself. He prided 
himself on the brilliancy of his conversational pow- 
ers, and was fond of saying, that although like Fox 
he could not call himself a handsome man, yet to 
secure himself of a lady’s favor, all he wished 
granted him was her ear, her undivided attention 
for a half hour, and he did not dread the rivalry 
of a far handsomer man. He generally contrived 
to take his hearers to England or France, to my 
lord so and so’s dinner table, or to the opera in 
my lord’s carriage, before he rested from his efforts 
to entertain. Something else must have been in 
the way of his favorite theory to-night, probably 
the fatigues of the day, for he had possessed Lizzie’s 
ear for more than an hour, and, judging from the 
weariness of her look, she did not seem to be very 
much captivated, and the conversation was begin- 
ing to flag ; though, judging from the doctor’s 
very animated look, and his unfeigned admiration 
of Lizzie, he had failed to perceive that his efforts 
were less successful than usual. 

9 * 


102 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


Lizzie rose at her mother’s entrance, as if glad 
of an excuse to escape, and was hastening away. 
The doctor hade her good-night, with many ex- 
pressions of gallantry, and congratulated himself 
that their journey would he continued together, 
for he announced his intention of visiting Niagara. 

The rest of the journey was accomplished with- 
out incidents of any particular interest. Lizzie was 
delighted with all she saw. The St. Lawrence, 
that grand old river, awakened her enthusiasm — 
there was so much of historical interest connected 
with its scenery — the picturesque heauty of the 
thousand islands, the wild scenery, all was so new, 
that she was continually gazing and calling on 
Fanny and her father to share her delights. Dr. 
Singleton ’sras always ready to admire with Miss 
Lizzie, hut he sometimes annoyed her and tried her 
patience a little, by constantly introducing his recol- 
lections of some European scenery that surpassed 
it a little ; however, he made himself agreeable on 
the whole, for he really was a man who had seen a 
great deal of the world and of society, and but for 
these little peculiarities, would have been more 
than ordinarily acceptable as a travelling companion. 

The doctor was seeking a wife, that was evident, 
and, like all old bachelors, he required that she 
must be young and beautiful — he did not always 
conceal this weakness. The subject was frequently 
discussed. One evening, as they were sitting on the 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


103 


guards of the steamboat, the doctor and Henry 
became quite animated, Henry, partly in jest, join- 
ing the doctor in declaring it quite essential that a 
wife must be young and beautiful. Lizzie replied 
with some spirit, that it certainly was not to be 
wondered at, if women were vain and silly ; and 
she and Fanny both appealed to Mr. Maitland to 
decide, if it were not to be attributed almost 
entirely to the undue value placed upon beauty by 
the opposite sex; and certainly, said Lizzie, she 
thought it very unjust for men to complain if their 
houses were ill-kept, and themselves uncomfortable, 
they really had no right to do so. “ If the wife 
only had beauty the acquirements were fulfilled on 
her part.” 

She and Fanny both declared that as far as they 
understood the matter, women were not required 
to be sensible, amiable, or good housewives. Youth 
and beauiy were the only essentials ; literary or cul- 
tivated tastes were quite proscribed. 

“ Oh ! ” said Dr. Singleton, “ a woman can have 
only one laudable ambition.” 

What may that be ? ” exclaimed both the girls 
at once. 

“ Only to secure the love of her husband,” said 
the doctor, seriously. 

Lizzie’s face flushed in an instant. 

“ And if the love of man is all a woman can 
hope to win in this life,” said she, quickly, “ she 


104 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


certainly lias nothing to kindle any very lofty aspira- 
tions, and it is no wonder that so many of the young 
and loveliest of God’s creatures seek a refuge from 
the snares and trials of the world, in a sanctuary 
where the aspirations of a noble nature may be 
better filled, and where a generous soul can offer 
up all its treasures with a better security than can 
be expected from the selfishness of man.” Then 
catching her father’s eye fixed upon her with an 
anxious and pained expression, she added, hastily — 
“God forbid that I should undervalue the 
sacred institution of marriage ; when it is entered 
into as He has appointed it, it is a holy estate, and 
productive of the greatest amount of happiness 
and contentment to be found in the world,” said 
she, with an equivocal sort of a manner that again 
troubled her father ; “ but then, it is a very differ- 
ent sort of a thing from the selfish and worldly 
contract entered into by parties drawn together 
by the attractions of mere personal charms, of 
wealth, or any other idle whim of the passing 
moment, without reference to the fulfilment of 
God’s laws, and without seeking his blessing. And 
as a woman, I pay my tribute of respect and thank- 
fulnes to the Catholic religion for all it has done to 
elevate my sex. It has raised her from the condi- 
tion of a slave, and the mere creature of the caprice 
and passion of the selfish and unprincipled of your 
sex, (and to which condition^ your views, if carried 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


105 


out, would again reduce her,) to be the friend, 
companion, consoler, and counsellor of the good 
and wise man, like my dear mother and my father,” 
said she, laughing and blushing as if ashamed of 
the warmth she had displayed, and trying to turn 
aside, by a pleasantry, the seriousness from her 
father’s brow. 

“ Why, Miss Lizzie,” said the doctor, looking 
somewhat astounded, “what an able champion 
your sex will have in you.” 

“ Oh ! not at all ; to be an able and efficient 
chami^ion, one must be capable of steady efforts 
and continued exertions ; and I shall not dare to 
make any application to be admitted among those 
of my sex,” continued she, laughing, “who feel 
called upon to defend the rights of woman. I shall 
be obliged to content myself with quietly taking 
them, since I can only rouse up now and then, when 
called out by some great occasion, like the pre- 
sent,” said she, half ironically, bowing to him. 
He seemed a little annoyed, as if he did not know 
precisely the ground on which he stood. Fanny 
and Henry were much amused at his confusion, for 
he appeared somewhat as if a mine had exploded 
at his feet. So they contrived to turn the conver- 
sation into another channel, and in a short time the 
subject was forgotten by all but Mr. Maitland : he 
pondered on these things and treasured them up in 
his heart. 


106 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


There was another listener to this conversation, 
who, to judge from the expression of his handsome, 
intelligent face, was both amused and interested. 
His large dark eyes rested admiringly upon Liz- 
zie’s animated countenance, and he seemed to en- 
joy the doctor’s discomfiture. 

Lizzie blushed deeply when she caught his eyes 
fixed upon her. As she stepped forward to join 
her mother, he rose, and, politely bowing to them, 
offered Mrs. Maitland an arm chair, and passed to 
the opposite side of the deck, as if to relieve them 
of the embarrassment of his presence. 

The next morning brought them within sight 
of this mighty cataract, this wonder of creation ! 
the most sublime spectacle the world can furnish ! 

Lizzie gazed, silent and awed, as she wandered 
amid the scenes she had so long desired to behold. 

How feeble are words to convey to the mind of 
another any conception of the strong emotions 
that stir the soul, while gazing on the mighty flow 
of waters, ever onward, onward ! 

The mind at first shrinks away with a sense of 
its own nothingness ! then a feeling of thankful- 
ness springs up for this one great voice of nature, 
which pours forth so impressively a sublime anthem 
of eternal praise, to the Majesty on High. Blush, 
oh man ! at thy insensibility and ingratitude^ — at 
thy feeble worship, so grudgingly and so sparingly 
rendered, whilst every flower of the valley rears its 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


107 


tender head, and sheds its sweetest perfumes — aye, 
pours out its very existence, to offer fitting incense 
on the altar of the Creator. The mountains and 
valleys, the hills and the plains, the rivers and 
mighty floods, continually send forth hymns of 
praise — ^but thou, Niagara! of them all, pourest 
forth in thy deep diapason, one mighty tone, the 
echo of which reverberates through the world. 
Roll on — roll on, — and let thy thunders make the 
angels deaf to the voice of man’s impiety and blas- 
phemies ! 

Lizzie sank on her knees, and, alone in this stu- 
pendous temple, she gave herself up to the sublime 
emotions that filled her soul. 

“ Eternal Father,” murmured she, “ suffer me, 
thy unworthy child, with my hand on my heart, 
and my spirit bowed in pious adoration, to join my 
feeble thanksgiving to this thy creature’s, that 
praises Thee so worthily.” 

“ Lizzie, my love, why do I find you thus alone ; 
does any grief afihct my child, that her father may 
not share ? ” Mr. Maitland raised his daughter in 
his arms. 

“No grief, my dearest father.” She could no 
longer withstand the tender, appealing look ; and 
there, in that spot so befitting such lofty aspira- 
tions, she poured into her father’s pained but at- 
tentive ear all that had so moved her — ^the ear- 
nest desire she felt to make some return to Al- 


108 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


mighty God, for all the benefits that she had 
received, — to make one generous ofiTering ; in her 
youth to devote her entire being to Him. 

Mr. Maitland pressed her to his heart, while his 
whole frame shook with emotion ; then, after a 
pause of a few moments, he said, gazing earnestly 
into his child’s face, — 

“ Hear me, Lizzie ; you have been the joy of 
my life ; you are, to your mother and myself, 
earth’s dearest treasure — and God forbid that I 
should withhold any sacrifice that He demands ; 
but, my child, I ask you, before you ever even express 
such a desire to another, to try well your motives, 
whether they be purely love to God, unmixed with 
any vainglorious, or mistaken sentiments ; be satis- 
fied that it is a vocation that comes from Him, and 
not a desire to follow your own will, rather than 
to be guided by wisdom from on high, — have you 
not duties of a high and binding nature, to your 
dear mother and to me ? I do not, even now, desire 
to influence you, my only, my darling child, if the 
vocation be from God — I ^vill endeavor to submit 
my will to His — but I ask one year, before you sub- 
ject your mother to so great a trial. 

“ Do not make known these sentiments to any, 
save your director, and humbly ask counsel and 
direction from Heaven. Pray for your parents,” 
said he, again clasping her to his bosom, and giving 
way to the emotions that choked his utterance. 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


109 


Lizzie wept in silence, and promised to follow 
her father’s advice ; this was the trial she had 
dreaded, her father’s anguish and her mother’s 
tears; she had thought of all before, and had 
shrunk from disclosing to him her sentiments. 
Since Robert’s death, and her own narrow escape, 
which, though child as she was, had made a fear- 
ful impression on her mind, she often meditated on 
the shortness of life, the snares and temptations of 
the world ; educated mostly in a convent, she had 
formed strong attachments for its gentle inmates ; 
their peaceful lives, and cheerful devotion to the 
fulfilment of their duties, — the contentment and 
happiness she had seen within that dear circle, 
offered far more attraction to her mind, than the 
allurements of the world ; and she seemed to have 
a painful sense of the struggles and temptations 
she must encounter through a life of usefulness, 
and she shrank from its storms, and secretly 
cherished a desire to return to the peaceful haven, 
v here she might offer up the first fruits of her soul 
to Almighty God, before any disappointment or 
grief had impaired the freshness, or value of her 
treasure ; she felt that all would be too little to re- 
pay the mighty love shown to her. 

These were the impulses of her young, untried 
heart. Now, when her father reminded her of 
other and high duties she had to perform, her 
heart smote her, as if there was a degree of self- 
10 


110 


LIZZIE MAITLAIO). 


ishness, in shrinking from the trials and struggles 
she dreaded in the world, and she acknowledged 
the truth of all he had said, and felt humbled that 
she had considered only herself. Alas ! how many 
older and wiser than Lizzie make the same mis- 
take, and don’t, like her, perceive their error at all. 
They mark out a high and lofty purpose for them- 
selves, and pursue it in such an unflinching and de- 
termined manner, (sometimes quite forgetful of the 
interests or comfort of others,) that, although the 
object is in itself a good one, the pride and self- 
will engendered by such a course, prove most 
hurtful to their own souls, and give great scandal 
to others, who don’t fail to perceive the want of 
humility. 

But we will leave the father and child alone 
with God, surrounded by the majesty of nature ; 
surely no scene more fitting. 




CHAPTER VIII. 


“ The frowardness of rashness is no better 
Than a wild dedication of ourselves 
To unpathed waters, undreamt shores ; most certain 
To miseries enough ; no hope to help us, 

But as we shake oS one, to take another.” 

Shakspeaeb. 

“ Does your uncle know of this, my love ? ” said 
Mrs. Maitland, gently; “I fear he will not ap- 
prove.” ^ 

“ N’o, aunt, he does not ; and it is to your kind 
intercession, that Henry and I look, to obtain his 
consent to our union.” 

“ My dear Fanny,” said Mrs. Maitland, se- 
riously, “ you have nothing to dread from your 
uncle, he desires only to secure your happiness ; 
but I think you are right in supposing that he will 
disapprove your union with a man who has openly 
avowed such infidel sentiments as Henry has done. 
Personally, and for his father’s sake, he is warmly 
attached to him, and you, my love, need no re- 
newed assurance of his affection ; but are you not 


1 


112 LIZZIE MAITLAXD. 

risking too much, to intrust your happiness to the , 
care of a man, who not only differs from you in i 
faith, but openly denies the truth of those doc- 
trines from which we, as Catholics, derive the 
sweetest consolation ? My dear child, this step, ■ 
once taken, is irrevocable ; and should it prove a 
mistaken one, the happiness of your whole life is 
involved, and may be destroyed.” 

“I did not think, my dear aunt,” Fanny re- 
plied, with no very amiable expression of counte- 
nance, “ that you would take so uncharitable and 
unkind a view of a few youthful impetuosities. 
Henry, you know, was baptized a Catholic ; his 
mother w'as a good pious one, and died in the faith, 
— and he is not very different from most young 
men, educated as he has been ; and I cannot be- 
lieve, but that a few years’ experience will change 
and modify his ideas on these subjects — and, be- 
sides, I feel that I can confide so fully in his affec- 
tion for me, that whatever may be his own opinions 
on these subjects, he will never attempt to interfere 
with my religious belief.” 

“ But, my dear girl, you don’t consider because 
you don’t know the risks you encounter ; the happi- 
ness of married life depends upon a perfect sympa- 
thy and interchange of thoughts and feeling, and 
is often marred by a dissimilarity of tastes ; and it 
most seriously interferes with a woman’s happiness 
to hear her husband, and the father of her children, 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


113 


openly denouncing and scoffing at things she holds 
most sacred, as in an instance that lately came 
under my own observation, where the father re- 
fused the rite of baptism, which the poor mother 
deemed essential to the welfare of her dying child. 
But, Fanny, if you desire it, I will acquaint your 
uncle with your wishes, and hope for the best, while 
I pray for your happiness.” 

Mrs. Maitland kissed her tenderly, and Fanny 
left her aunt with an uncomfortable feeling, some- 
thing between vexation and sorrow. She, was self- 
willed and a little conceited, and had never borne 
contradiction, and now, when her affections were 
so deeply enlisted, she found it difficult to listen to 
advice that her conscience told her was reasonable, 
and dictated by the fondest affection; for Mrs. 
Maitland had, since her childhood, shown her 
almost a mother’s love and tenderness — and Fanny 
could not but acknowledge to herself that she 
owed her aunt the dutiful affection of a daughter. 

Days sped rapidly away, and still the Maitlands 
lingered amid scenes so attractive ; there were so 
many places to be visited. Every day the young 
people planned so many excursions, that the time 
flew away on golden wings. Ah ! how would they 
be remembered in long years after, and rise up 
through the dimmed and blighted hopes that now 
dazzled the vision of those young hearts ! 

Mr. and Mrs. Maitland looked on with kind and 
10 * 


114 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


affectionate interest, and indulged them in all their 
fancies. Mr. Maitland had given a reluctant con- 
sent to Fanny’s union with Henry Sumner. He 
felt many anxieties; he knew the expensive and 
self-indulgent habits that Henry had formed ; the 
only child of a wealthy father. While he was yet 
very young, he had been deprived, by death, of 
that great blessing, a tender and judicious mother’s 
training. Poor Mr. Maitland had many struggles 
in his own mind ; sometimes he almost reproached 
himself with injustice for the doubts he felt, and 
found himself unable to resist the urgent solicita- 
tions of the young man, and Fanny’s appealing 
look ; so it was settled that, some time during the 
ensuing winter, the marriage should take place. 

The doctor continued his attentions, seeming 
daily to become more and more enamored of Lizzie. 
But there was stUl another who had been added to 
the party in the person of L^dward Lee, the dark- 
eyed young stranger who had listened with much 
interest to the conversation on the steamer, and 
whose increasing admiration of Lizzie gave the 
worthy doctor considerable annoyance. 

At length the day of departure arrived ; after 
some discussion, it was decided to continue the 
journey westward, across the lakes. With many 
lingering looks and regrets, they left the scenes 
that had afforded so much to fill the soul with sub- 
lime emotions. The day was hot and sultry, the 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


115 


roads dusty and uncomfortable, but Lizzie still 
found much to interest her. Already the wheat- 
fields were ripe for the sickle ; the well-filled heads, 
bowed down, reminded one forcibly that it is only 
the empty and worthless ones, in the wheat-field, 
as in the world, that hold themselves up stiff, and 
high above the others. 

The first pale hues of vermilion and gold ting- 
ing the rich, dense foliage, and the peculiar misty 
atmosphere that gives such an indescribable charm 
to the landscape, and first heralds the approach 
of autumn, were not lost on our friends, so keenly 
alive to the beautiful ; and when Lizzie found her- 
self floating over those majestic lakes and rivers, 
she seemed to feel it, as the realization of some 
beautiful dream. 

Mr. Maitland forgot his anxieties in the pleasure 
he experienced in the delight of the young people, 
and he found much to interest him also in those 
western cities. It was with no slight satisfaction 
that he discovered Edward Lee to be a convert to 
the faith he loved so ardently. Mr. M. and Lizzie 
met him in one of the churches at early mass, and 
were equally pleased and surprised to see him de- 
voutly joining in the services. As it happened that 
he was making the same tour, it proved a source 
of equal pleasure to all to have so agreeable an 
acquisition to the party, and Lizzie found him an 
able champion against the attacks of the doctor 


116 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


and Henry Sumner, though the latter was, it must 
he confessed, much more cautious in the expression 
of his opinions than formerly ; and the friends of 
Fanny began to hope, with her, that it might prove 
to be no settled infidel principles, but the impetu- 
osity of youthful feelmg, which had carried him 
beyond the bounds of discretion. 

Hr. Singleton could not reconcile himself to 
the idea of people so intelligent and cultivated as 
the Maitlands giving themselves up to the super- 
stitions and bigotry of the Romish faith. 

“ But why, doctor, do you not express the paiv 
ticular grounds of your dissatisfaction, and not 
generalize so much your objections ? ” 

“Well then. Miss Lizzie,” said he, “I consider 
it arrogant and bigoted for Catholics to claim that 
no one can be saved in any other Church, or in the 
practice of any other religion. What then is to 
become of all the pious people who have died, who 
had not embraced your faith ? Is it not bigotry 
to say they are all lost ? I believe one religion is 
just as good as another, and that it is right for 
every man to practise the religion in which ho was 
educated, if it suits his tastes when he becomes a 
man, and is capable of judging for himself; for my 
part, I think a variety in creeds a good thing, 
as long as there is such a divei-sity of human 
opinion.” 

“ And so,” said Edward, “ in an afifair so Lm- 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


117 


portant as the salvation of the soul, you would 
leave a man to follow the dictates of his fancy, and 
supposing him fastidious, and not suited with any 
of the established creeds, he must find a new one 
for himself, and allowing the same liberty to all, 
there must soon ensue an endless confusion. Athe- 
ism and other frightful evils must be the result of 
such a free exercise of human taste and reason. 
The good Catholic does not presume to limit the 
Divine mercy, or pronounce, on his private judg- 
ment, who will be saved, but his faith does enjoin 
upon him to hold that no one can be saved out 
of the Apostolic Church, and he believes it to be 
the only ark of salvation ; he is also bound to hold, 
as equally certain, that invincible ignorance of the 
true religion is no fault in the sight of God. No 
individual can take into account all the various con- 
ditions of the human beings who surround him, or 
know all the secret springs that influence the action 
of the human mind, so he may not dare to pronounce 
judgment on the future condition of others ; but he 
is bound to secure his own salvation by embra- 
cing the faith^ and obeying the instructions of the 
Church which he believes to have been established 
by Christ, and continued through his Apostles. If 
he is a faithful Christian, and loves his fellow-crea- 
tures, does not charity require that he should un- 
flinchingly declare, that there is no salvation out 
of the Catholic Church ? Must he be denounced 


118 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


as a bigot on that account ? N oah said to the 
whole world, that they would perish out of the 
ark. Their taunts and derision did not prevent 
them from being overwhelmed in the waters of the 
deluge. Neither will the charges of intolerance 
and bigotry, or the sneers with which unbelievers 
assail the Church and her children, prevent them 
from i^erishing who obstinately refuse to listen to 
her voice. 

“ Charity requires the Catholic to pray con- 
stantly, that all nations may be converted to Christ, 
for he is assured that the gifts of Divine grace will 
be bestowed on those who sincerely and humbly 
pray for assistance and the light of truth. Pride 
and self-sufficiency will always prove insuperable 
barriers to the entrance of this Divine light. Is it 
wonderful that infidelity should be so rife in our 
midst, when men arrogantly reject the dogmas of 
faith to follow the dictates of fancy, and attempt 
to place theology and philosophy side by side ; and 
in their vanity and ignorance, expect to illustrate 
and explain both by the aid of human reason alone ? ” 

“ But, my dear sir, that is one of the very 
things of which I complain — the implicit obedi- 
ence your Church requires of her children, thereby 
destroying all intellectual freedom, and subjecting 
them to the rule of the Priests. How are you to 
prevent them from becoming the servile victims of 
fanaticism ? For my part, I could never yield up 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


119 


my mind to the dominion of a set of men who 
may be imscrupulous and designing, or, in other 
words, submit to be priest-ridden.’’ 

“But you forget, doctor, that it is only in 
dogmas of faith that the Church requires implicit 
obedience from her children. The human mind 
needs some support ; if you admit the divinity of 
Christ, which the Church proposes for your belief, 
you have at once something whereon to lean ; and 
it is simple and easy to accept the sublime instruc- 
tions and lessons that flow from His lips, to hear 
and obey the teachings of the Churchy as the echo 
of his voice; but if you persist in rejecting the 
mystery of the Incarnation, and reduce our Blessed 
Redeemer to the situation of an Elegant Philoso- 
pher, whose words in that case have no more au- 
thority, and are no more binding than the teachings 
of any other sound reasoner and good man, and give 
men up to the full exercise of intellectual liberty, 
what have you gained, while human reason is so fluc- 
tuating and inconstant, so liable to be swayed by sur- 
rounding influences? You have cut the ship loose 
from her moorings, and set her adrift, without pilot 
or rudder, and who is to bring her into port safely ? 
And who is to control this tide of boasted intellec- 
tual freedom, when it shall seek some dangerous 
channel, which threatens to overwhelm society? 
What, my dear sir, can there be humiliating in sub- 
mitting your reason to authority which is able to 


120 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


present such good proof to substantiate her claims 
to Divine origin ? Or what can you hope to gain 
by rejecting all, and leaving mankind to the unre- 
strained guidance of reason and intellectual liberty, 
but infidelity and fanaticism ? ’’ 

“ But you seem to forget, Mr. Lee, that Pro- 
testants have a sure rule of faith in the Bible, from 
which to draw support and consolation in every 
difficulty, as well as a rule of action : with that, and 
the free exercise of reason, they cannot be said to 
reject all authority, for you admit that it contains 
every thing essential to salvation.” 

“Catholics most certainly acknowledge the 
Holy Scriptures as a rule of faith, but not the 
whole rule ; they differ from Protestants in denying 
the right of private interpretation^ the exercise of 
which may lead to embrace any one of numerous 
sects which surround us, for all alike claim to be 
grounded on the Bible — from the Baptist, who 
thinks immersion is essential, to the Quaker, who 
denies entirely the outward ceremony.” 

“I have no particular preference,” the doctor 
replied, “ for any sect or creed, but I regret the 
growth of Romanism, as incompatible with a re- 
publican form of government ; and acknowledging, 
as you Catholics do, the supremacy of the Pope, in 
secular as in sacred affairs, and that he can absolve 
men from their relations with others, not of the 
true faith, I would not vote for any man holding 
that faith.” 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


121 


“There, my dear sir, is the mistake that you, 
in common with other Protestants, make in sup- 
posing that Catholics, while they yield obedience 
and deference to the Pope, as their spiritual head^ 
utterly deny any right to him from his divine office, 
to interfere in any manner whatsoever, with their 
relations as citizens and their governments, between 
subjects and sovereigns. And however profound 
the veneration of all Catholics may be to him, as 
spiritual head of the Church, they deny to Pope 
and Council united, any power to interfere with 
their political rights, as firmly as they deny to 
President and Congress any power of interfering 
with their spiritual rights.” 

“ But,” interrupted the doctor, “ how do you 
reconcile that with the fact that Popes have de- 
throned kings ? ” 

“ I do not deny that they have done so ; but 
I deny that the right to do so was ever claimed as 
1 a divine right, inherent in the spiritual office of the 
] successor of St. Peter. It was a right conferred 
i for special occasions, by those interested in its exer- 
I cise — conferred by monarchs for their own safety, 
and approved by the people for their own benefit — ‘ 
and those who invested the Pope with the right, 
because they could assist him with the power, and 
because general safety required the exercise of 
that power, retained in their own hands the right 
to withdraw or invalidate their former bestowal, and 
11 


122 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


leave in the hands of the Roman Pontiff only his 
spiritual rights over kings and people, beyond the 
limits of his own temporal dominion.”* 

“ I confess,” said the doctor, rising, with a good- 
natured smile, “ if what you say be really the doc- 
trines held by Catholics, it presents the matter in 
a different light from that in which I have been 
accustomed to regard it.” 

“ Yes,” replied Edward, “ Catholics, and the 
faith they profess, have in all times been misrepre- 
sented, and that is the reason why they cordially 
invite a close, examination of the doctrines they 
hold. These, and a thousand other objections dis- 
appear, when subjected to the test of truth. The 
Catholic Church, viewed from without, appears un- 
lovely, because blackened and defamed by her 
enemies; but seen from within, she is fair and 
beautiful, filled with the glory conferred by her 
Spouse.” 

* The Pope has no secular authority in the case, or pCwer 
to interfere with the pure temporalities of citizens and their 
governments ; but he has a divine right to interfere in so far as 
moral or spiritual relations are involved. The answer in the 
text is an opinion, not Catholic doctrine. — Editor. 



CHAPTER IX. 

“ Forgive me that thon couldst not love 1 it may be that a tone 
Yet from my burning heart may pierce thro’ thine when I am gone, 

And thou perchance may’st weep for him, on whom thou ne’er hast 
smiied.” — H emaks. 

“And so, Lizzie, you really could not find one 
little corner of your heart to bestow upon the 
doctor, and you dismissed him without any show 
of compassion ? ” 

“ I could find quite a large comer of my heart, 
as you say, for him, for I really liked his society, 
and thought him a good-tempered and agreeable 
man ; but that is a very different affair fi^-om bestow- 
ing any serious regard upon a man who was not 
only opposed to my religion,^ but indifferent to 
all religions.” 

Fanny colored to the temples, but made no re- 
mark, and the conversation dropped. Lizzie was 
so engrossed with other thoughts, that she did not 
: perceive the effect which her remark (made with- 
out any reference whatever to Fanny’s connection 
with Henry) had produced upon her cousin. 


124 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


Our travellers had now in good earnest turned 
their faces homewards, and were resting themselves 
in a cool, spacious apartment in one of the large 
hotels in Montreal, after the excitement and fatigue 
of a day through the rapids. 

They had parted from Dr. Singleton and Henry, 
who had continued their journey southward. Mrs. 
Maitland had met her old friend, Mrs. Gilford, who 
was returning to her friends, and who informed her 
that Mr. Gilford had died without ever admitting 
her to his presence. The poor woman was entirely 
overcome when she spoke of the last moments of 
her husband. She excused him as well as she was 
able, and tried to persuade herself, as well as Mrs. 
Maitland, that he was really too feeble to undergo 
the agitation of an interview — he had lingered 
much longer than was anticipated when she had 
been summoned to attend his death-bed. Mrs. 
Maitland endeavored to console her, and assured 
her of her desire to befriend her if ever she should 
find herself in need of a sister’s friendship. 

It was long past midnight, and many a weary 
heart and aching head were soothed into forgetful- 
ness, and were fast locked in deep slumber, when a 
hoarse murmur ran through the. halls, and the hur- 
rying and trampling of many footsteps aroused 
Lizzie from a sound sleep. She opened the door 
and listened, the terrific cry of fire burst on her 
ear, and a stifling smell of smoke told but too 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


125 


plainly the cause of the commotion. She aroused 
her sleeping cousin, and hastily thromng some 
loose wrappers around their persons, she half car- 
ried the bewildered Fanny, as she rushed to her 
mother’s apartment. She met Mrs. Maitland fly- 
ing, with outstretched arms, and pallid face, to 
find her. Mr. Maitland had gone in haste, at the 
first alarm, to ascertain the extent of the danger. 
As Mrs. Maitland folded Fanny and Lizzie to her 
embrace, the thought of poor Mrs. Gilford, her 
deafness and her lonely and desolate condition , and 
her terror and confusion at finding herself alone, 
surrounded by such peril, flashed across her mind, 
and, charging Lizzie and Fanny to remain where 
they were until their father’s return, she sped on 
swifi} feet to find her desolate friend. In a few 
moments Mr. Maitland returned with Edward Lee, 
and bade thlbi hasten, for no time was to be lost. 

“ Oh mamma ! for God’s sake find mamma ! ” 
shrieked Lizzie. And Mr. Maitland, in horror, 
perceived that his wife was not there, “Holy 
Mother pray for us,” burst from his white lips. 
“ Where has she gone ? ” said he, in a voice hoarse 
from alarm. 

“ She went to find Mrs. Gilford, in that direc- 
tion,” gasped Lizzie, “ she will be lost and she 
attempted to rush in the direction her mother had 
taken, but felt herself arrested by a powerful arm. 

“ Stay, Lizzie ! and you are in no condition to 

1 11 * 


120 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


go, sir said Edward Lee, laying a hand also on 
the arm of Mr. Maitland, who was starting, like a 
madman, in the same direction — “ Fly with your 
children, and I will seek your wife. Lizzie, tell me 
quickly the number of the room, and the way she 
went.” 

“ No,” said Mr. Maitland, in a husky and hur- 
ried voice, “ I will seek my wife — ^go quickly with 
my children to a place of safety.” 

Fanny and Lizzie clung to his arms as they fled 
in terror through the halls ; as they reached the 
staircase, a suffocating smoke, followed by a blind- 
mg sheet of flame, met them. Edward turned and 
sought another egress, and succeeded in reaching 
the street in safety. 

“ Oh, my dear father and mother ! ” groaned 
Lizzie, wringing her hands in anguish,^‘ you will be 
lost ! I must save you ! ” and in the blindness of 
terror and despair, she was about to rush back into 
the burning building. 

“ Lizzie, dearest Lizzie, will you hear me ? 
Will you remam here with your cousin while I re- 
turn to seek your father and mother ? Will you 
hear me ? ” As he turned, she sank on her knees 
beside the bewildered Fanny, murmuring prayers 
for their safety. 

Edward hastened back through the same pas- 
sage they had taken, but he found that the flames 
had already made such progress, that the smoke 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


127 


prevented him from following the same course, so 
he was obliged to find his way through another. 
This caused him delay, and before he reached the 
end of the passage, he saw the staircase fall with a 
heavy crash ; he looked upward and perceived Mr. 
and Mrs. Maitland and Mrs. Gilford standing in 
despair at the top, half hidden from his sight by 
the blinding smoke; he shouted to attract their 
attention, and to tell them there was yet another 
staircase at a short distance, untouched as yet by 
the fire, and which was concealed by an angle 
of the building. Finding it impossible to make 
them comprehend, he darted along, though nearly 
bewildered by the smoke, and succeeded in reach- 
ing them, as, exhausted with affright, Mrs. Mait- 
land was ready to sink ; Mr. Maitland supported 
poor Mrs. Gilford, who seemed incapable of making 
any exertion to save herself. Edward seized Mrs. 
Maitland in his arms and dashed through the 
narrow passage-way, for they were in the back part 
of the building, where the confusion was every mo- 
ment becoming more and more fearful, and the 
hall rendered almost impassable by the suffocating 
heat and smoke. They finally reached a low, 
narrow door that led to the street. Mr. Maitland 
and Mrs. Gilford passed through it safely, but just 
as Edward, who bore Mrs. Maitland, almost insen- 
sible from fatigue and terror, in his arms, and who 
had nearly lost their foothold, were within a few 


128 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


steps of the door, a blinding sheet of flames burst 
through a folding-door, and swept from one of the 
adjoining rooms directly across their path ; to 
pause or falter now, was certain destruction ; there 
was no hope, no escape but to dash through the 
door, which stood open, so that they could discern 
the street beyond ; but unfortunately, a light veil 
that Mrs. Maitland had hastily thrown over her 
head, caught on fire, and in an instant her head 
was enveloped in flames — Edward tore it off, but 
her hair, brow, and eyes had suffered from the 
contact ; he gave her, fainting from fear and exhaus- 
tion, to the arms of her husband and child. 

Edward was untiring in his efibrts to see them 
comfortably settled for the night, for the confusion 
and fright, and then the joy of their escape, had 
almost rendered the ladies incapable of further ex- 
ertion, and they needed all Mr. Maitland’s atten- 
tion, and he was truly thankful to be assisted in so 
efficient a manner by the thoughtful kmdness of 
Edward. 

Mrs. Maitland, in addition to the serious incon- 
venience and pam she suffered from her burns, 
exhibited signs of extreme indisposition : it was de- 
cided to hasten home with all speed. Edward, 
together with Mrs. Gilford, received a pressing 
invitation to return with the family to Maitlandville. 
The latter declined ; and after seeing her safely on 
her way to her friends, the family left for the quiet 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


129 


of their own home, accompanied by Edward Lee. 
He lingered at Maitlandville under the fascination 
of Lizzie’s charms ; he had never allowed himself 
to express any of the admiration he felt, and, except 
the solitary expression that had escaped him during 
the excitement of that dreadful night, nothing had 
ever passed his lips, and he felt quite uncertain of 
any return of his sentiments on the part of Lizzie. 
She had thanked him again and again, with the 
liveliest emotion, for his active kindness in saving 
her parents. 

With glowing cheeks, and eyes glistening with 
tears, she had pressed the hand of her preserver, 
as she called him, hut that was all — ^he could not 
take any encouragement from that ; just as warmly 
j would she have thanked her father’s coachman, he 
thought, had it been he, instead, who had chanced 
I to render this service. 

1 He resolved to put an end to this suspense by 
seeking an interview, and learning from her own 
lips whether he might hope for a return of the 
affection he lavished upon her. 

Edward Lee was the only son of a wealthy 
merchant in Boston, by whose recent death he had 
become possessed of a large fortune. While finish- 
ing his studies, he became acquainted with the 
doctrines of the Catholic Church, through the 
i influence of a class-mate, and after a year or two 
I of doubt and indecision, had embraced them, and 


130 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


now experienced the happiness that the pious and 
faithful Catholic always finds in the practice of his 
religion. 

He prayed for those of his own family whom 
he loved, and longed to show them the beauty and 
holiness of. the faith which they despised and re- 
jected ; he patiently endured the scorn and sar- 
casms heaped upon him, and smiled when he heard 
himself denounced as insane or fanatical, or when 
warned of the danger of being entrapped by the 
Jesuits (those dreadful bugbears of all Protestants !) 
into schemes dangerous to his own happiness, or the 
peace of the community. Poor Jesuits ! the hatred 
and obloquy of men have always been heaped upon 
you ! the very name you bear, followers of Jesus I 
will entitle you to reproach and scorn : ye must not 
hope to fare better than your Master, whom the 
world loaded with infamy and suffering, and then 
crucified in return for the countless benefits he 
conferred. 

Edward had studied the profession of law, and 
determined to return to his native city to establish 
himself, after a year or two spent in travelling ; he 
had listened with much interest to the little dis- 
putes between Lizzie and Dr. Singleton, on the 
steamboat, and had been at first only amused ; but 
the impressions made on his heart by Lizzie’s fasci- 
nations, after a more intimate acquaintance, were 
too deep to be easily effaced. Her good sense and 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


131 


Straightforward manner of expressing her strong 
feelings, her affectionate and unselfish disposition, 
and above all, the identity of their faith, made 
him feel that she was in a peculiar manner adapted 
to render him happy — and it is seldom that one’s 
heart and judgment so perfectly agree in the 
choice of a companion for life. 

The painful doubts he felt of the state of her 
feelings, made him hesitate, and resolve to ascer- 
tain the truth from Lizzie herself, before address- 
ing Mr. Maitland on the subject so near his heart. 

Mrs. Maitland grew more and more indisposed, 
and was finally obliged to withdraw entirely from 
the family circle ; and Lizzie had the pain of hear- 
ing the doctor pronoimce her mother to be in a 
slow nervous fever, but which, he said, was likely 
to prove more tedious than alarming. 

She was so much occupied with her mother that 
Edward felt impelled, by motives of delicacy, to 
shorten his visit, but still he had lingered in the 
hope that a favorable opportunity would occur of 
ascertaining from Lizzie herself, what encourage- 
ment there was for the sentiments he entertained. 

It was a lovely day, and the soft, dreamy haze 
of autumn invested the landscape with its peculiar 
charm. Lizzie had accompanied Father Bailey, as 
was her custom, to the end of the lane : she stood 
for a few moments leaning over the gate, after he 
passed out. 


132 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


“ How pale and ill he looks,” said she to her- 
self, as she gazed after his retreating figure. She 
appeared quite suddenly to become aware of the 
change in his health since she last saw him, and 
almost reproached herself with carelessness and 
indifierence, that she had allowed herself to he so 
taken up with her own affairs as to have been in- 
sensible to the weariness and languor that she now 
so clearly discerned in him. 

“ I wonder if my father is aware how ill Father 
Bailey is,” she said to herself. “ I am sure he 
would persuade him to take more care of his 
health.” Lizzie sighed — for next to her own family 
there was no one whom she loved and esteemed so 
highly. She turned off into one of the neatly grav- 
elled alleys that led to the garden, to collect some 
floAvers for her mother’s chamber. She seated her- 
self on a garden-chair, and was thoughtfully arrang- 
ing them, when a slight rustling attracted her atten- 
tion ; — raising her eyes, she perceived EdAvard Lee 
close beside her. Stretching out her hand with a 
kind smile, she offered him some of the beautiful 
roses she had just gathered. He took the fiowers, 
and gazing earnestly at her, said in a low tone — 
“Will you pardon me, dear Lizzie, if I strive 
also to retain the hand that bestOAA^s them ? ” 

Lizzie looked up as if puzzled to understand 
his meaning, so foreign to the current of her 
thoughts at the time of his approach ; but that 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


133 


she was at no loss to read it, as she gazed upon 
his manly face, lit up with the earnestness and 
depth of his emotions, might have been guessed 
from the deep flush that sulFused her own, and 
caused her to withdraw her hand with so sudden 
a motion, that Edward started back, and an ex- 
pression of pain and sorrow instantly succeeded 
the bright and hopeful one that had animated his 
handsome countenance but a moment before. 

“Pardon me. Miss Maitland,” he said, “if carried 
away by the ardor of my own feelings, I have ap- 
peared presumptuous in your eyes. Nay, hear me, 
Lizzie, dearest Lizzie,” said he, “suffer me this once 
to call you so ; suffer me, if you cannot return it, 
to tell you how deeply, truly, how respectfully I 
love you. I am not deceived — I see — I see it all, 
you do not, cannot love me ; but though it crushes 
out the hopes I have dared to entertain, it does not 
stifle the love that I have cherished. I have 
watched your heart, dear^ Lizzie, and had fondly 
hoped for a response that would have made me the 
happiest of men. Could you have returned my 
love, being of one faith, we could have knelt 
together before the altar and entreated the blessing 
of Heaven. Such a marriage, with the sanction 
and blessing of the Catholic Church, is a sacrament, 
a holy and blessed rite, and brings the purest joys 
that earth can bestow. But oh ! Lizzie, I sue in 
vain, I see I do — forgive me, and do not turn 
12 


134 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


away from me ; I will no longer pain you by my 
pleadings.” 

She had covered her face with her hands, and 
her whole frame shook with the new and strange 
emotions that stirred her soul. In the innocence 
and gayety of her young life, one throb of affection, 
like that he sought, had never once disturbed the 
joyousness of her heart ; she loved her father with 
far more than an ordinary fondness, and her dear, 
good, kind mother, was the other part of herself — 
Fanny and Father Bailey shared the rest of her 
affections. 

The memory of her Aunt Agnes was like a 
sweet remembered dream, her virtues the stand- 
ard of excellence she had always desired to attain, 
and the poor girl trembled when she found herself 
assailed by that which she considered a temptation 
to forsake the path of duty she had marked out 
for herself, forgetful, in the confidence of youth, 
that her Heavenly Father, in his infinite wisdom, 
might have ordered another destiny for her far 
different. 

“ Lizzie,” said Edward, sadly, “ will you not 
bid me a kind farewell ? I must leave you to-day, 
and long years perhaps wHl roll away ere we shall 
meet again ; but my heart will ever turn to you 
with the fondest remembrance, and my prayers 
will be unceasing for your happiness. Hay — ^not 
one kind word for me ! ” said he, almost reproach- 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


135 


fiilly, as Lizzie continued to weep. “ Have I then 
offended you past forgiveness?” — and he turned 
to go. 

“ Stay, Mr. Lee — Edward, my kind brother,” 
said she, turning her tearful eyes upon him — “ Stay, 
hear me, and you will not feel pained or offended 
when you have heard me.” 

He seated himself beside her, and Lizzie re- 
counted to him some of the events of her life that 
had given the peculiar bias to her mind. The death 
of Robert Davis ; the vivid impression upon her 
young imagination; the influence that her Aunt 
Agnes’ superhuman fortitude, and her virtues, had 
exercised over her ; all her undefined longings for 
something better than the mere idle baubles of life. 
She told him of the promise she had given her 
father to wait a year before expressing any such 
desires. She told him all freely, and with the affec- 
tionate confidence of a young sister to an elder 
brother. 

She told him that her heart was untrammelled 
by any attachment ; and simply, truly, and frankly, 
that she had never' thought of him in any other 
light than as the preserver of the lives of her 
parents, and as such, she should ever regard him 
as her dearest and most valued friend out of her 
own family. 

Edward pressed his lips upon her hand, which 
he had taken, and which she suffered him to hold. 


136 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


“ Oh, Lizzie ! is this all I can ever hope to win ? 

She kindly, but firmly assured him that, with 
her present feelings, a sister’s love was all she had 
to bestow. 

A shade of deep disappointmenj; passed over 
his face, and he paused as if repressing some strong 
emotion. 

“ It is not for me to attempt to persuade you to 
reconsider your resolution ; your father’s advice to 
examine well your motive, is better, and perhaps 
more disinterested, than any thing I could say 
would be. But, dear Lizzie, does not your invalid 
mother require your care? and to be a comfort 
and solace to your father, and to cheer his loneli- 
ness, appear to you as binding a duty as any other 
can be ? ” 

“ I have already thought of that,” said Lizzie, 
“ but my marriage would interfere as seriously with 
my duty to my parents, and would rob them of 
my society and care just as much.” 

“ I cannot feel that it would,” replied Edward ; 
“the world is aU open before me, and my wife 
could choose her residence, and if it would increase 
her happiness or usefulness to be near her parents, 
no word or act of mine would interfere.” 

“Say no more,” said Lizzie, rising to retire; 
“ my mother’s health would be a sufficient reason 
why I could not leave my home at present, even to 
fulfil what I should consider the highest destiny of 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


137 


woman ; do not let this interrupt our friendship,” 
said she, extending her hand with the frank kind- 
ness of a sister ; “ my father, as well as myself, will 
regret your departure ; but you will return to visit 
us ; and be assured of my most cordial esteem. 

“ Oh, Lizzie ! is this all I can ever hope to win ? ” 
said he, while an expression of pain and disappoint- 
ment overspread his countenance, “ I go — fare- 
well — ^may the choicest of heaven’s blessings rest 
upon your head.” And pressing his lips upon her 
hand, he turned away, and Lizzie heard his rapid 
footsteps as he disappeared amid the shrubbery. 



12 * 



CHAPTER X. 

The Spring had again arrived — all nature looked 
glad ; the forests had assumed the tender verdure 
peculiar to the season, violets and anemonies peeped 
from amidst the soft green moss, and the arbutus 
sent out its glossy leaves, and trailed its sweet blos- 
soms amid the browned and withered leaves that 
had sheltered it from the frosts of winter; the 
stream, freed from its icy fetters, sparkled in the 
sunbeams, and seemed to rejoice in its freedom, 
and murmured forth its gladness through the 
whole valley. So little changed was the scene, one 
could almost have fancied it the same morning 
when Lizzie sat on the door-step, a little child — her 
young heart filled, but not comprehending the emo- 
tions that thrilled it with such strange delight. 
She had not ceased to love these musings, and the 
gentle teachings of nature were as dear to her as 
ever ; but now, she gazed with feelings sobered and 
saddened. 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


139 


Fanny was married, and gone with Henry to 
Xew Orleans. Mrs. Maitland lingered a confirmed 
i invalid. Lizzie was left alone to cheer her father’s 
solitude ; her mother required much of her care. 
— it was her daily task to read for her amusement, 

: for the severe pains she suffered in her eyes pre- 
vented Mrs. Maitland from ever attempting to read 
i herself; and, although in appearance the eyes were 
not injured, she found it utterly impossible to fix 
them fbr any length of time, without producing 
intense agony. Lizzie had learned to feel that 
there is a much gi eater merit in obedience and 
submission, than in the performance of great sacri- 
fices, if in making them we follow rather the dic- 
i tates of our own will, than the wiU of our Heavenly 
' Father, who is often served much more acceptably 
by the fkith and submission of some obscure and 
lowly servant, unknown or forgotten by the great 
I ones of earth, than by mighty deeds and costly of- 
ferings — Alas ! too often, only the oflTspring of sell- 
righteousness and pride. 

She did not need Father Bailey’s counsel to 
' convince her, where her duty lay plainly marked 
[ out for her, and without a murmur she courageous- 
; ly pursued it ; she endeavored to take her mother’s 
I place as far as possible. The helping hand and 
f cheerful counsel endeared her to all the poor and 
I needy. And who shall say that kind words to the 
I poor and afflicted are lost ? Who has not felt, at 


140 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


some period of his life, that words of encourage- 
ment and sympathy were, to his soul, like a foun- 
tain of water in the desert ? When sickness, mis- 
fortune, sorrow, and it may he sin has crushed down 
step by step the poor victim, who feels that he has 
lost the esteem of his fellow-men, and when the 
last spark of self-respect is dying out, and the 
waves of despondency are ready to overwhelm the 
sinking soul, who shall dare to say that kind words 
are of no avail ? Does not God send his angels to 
minister to that soul, and sometimes to speak to 
those who are ready to perish, through the lips of 
a pure and gentle woman ? 

So Lizzie, while her own feelings became more 
chastened and subdued, trusted more firmly than 
ever the Father who sent these trials. 

Father Bailey looked feeble, and had through 
the winter suffered from a wearing cough, though 
he would not complain. Mr. Maitland felt con- 
siderable anxiety for him. He had sent to Boston 
for a physician, an old and valued friend, who had 
advised change of scene for Mrs. Maitland, whose 
nervous system had seemed to become quite pros- 
trated — he recommended a trip to Europe. Mrs. 
Maitland, though averse to leaving home, consented, 
when she saw how confidently her husband and 
daughter seemed to look forward to . beneficial 
results ; and, with a mother’s love, she could not 
endure to see her only child condemned to the sad- 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


141 


: ness of a sick chamber. She saw also that constant 
, attendance in a sick chamber had begun to make 
I itself visible in Lizzie’s young frame. These con- 
siderations induced her to give a cheerful assent, 
not that she really hoped much herself. She only 

I begged to be allowed to remain in her own quiet 
home until the heat of the summer was passed. 
Mr. Maitland invited Father Bailey to accompany 
them, and insisted so strenuously that it was his 

I duty to seek the restoration of his health, that he 
also finally consented to go with them to Rome. 
Bridget, the old and faithful nurse, though she 
\ expressed some well-remembered fears on account 
I of the “ sea itself,” as she called it, still professed 
ij her determination to accompany Mrs. Maitland. 

1; Lizzie made it a point to visit aU the cottages 

! of their old friends and pensioners before leaving ; 
and many blessings and kind wishes were expressed 
for their welfare, and the restoration of Mrs. Mait- 
,1 land’s health. 

Kitty O’Brien wept outright, but wished them 
1 Godspeed with all the warmth of her Irish heart, 
ji Patrick Mahoney and Bridget thought there 
I would be sad times among them when the masther 
and misthress were so far away. “ But shure. Miss 
Lizzie,” said Pat, his countenance brightening up, 
“ye will niver come back widout first taking a 
I look at dear ould sufferin Ireland. My blessin 
1 upon her ! Shure ye would like to look upon the 


142 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


soil where the blood of so many martyrs was spilt 
for the faith ye profess. There’s many a fine sight 
there, Miss Lizzie, and many a spot dear to the 
recollections of thim as was born on her green soil ; 
and it’s often memory travels back there in drames, 
to the ould cabin where me mother died, — God 
rest her sowl ! It’s always bin the hope to go back 
to see it once more, as has kept me heart warm 
within me. And if I live till I die — and the Lord 
only knows whether I will or no — I will visit ould 
Ireland agin, before I lam Ameriky.” 

It was an efibrt for Lizzie to withstand the mix- 
ture of the pathetic and ludicrous in Pat’s manner. 
He prided himself on his scholarship, which enabled 
him to read very well, and to write excessively bad 
English, which latter attainment made his services 
in great requisition in the neighborhood, and many 
were the letters he wrote for the occupants of the 
surrounding cottages, that were sent off by the 
grateful recipients of his favors, to mystify the 
simple souls “ on the other side of the big wathers ; ” 
but the accompanying five pound note generally 
aided them to a full understanding of the pros- 
perity and blessings that had fallen to the share of 
those they loved; and they thanked God, with 
grateful hearts, that his good gifts had not hardened 
nor made them unmindful of the father and mother 
that reared them; and many a prayer went up 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


143 


i 

I that was wafted, fraught with rich blessings, to the 
j strange, far-off shore. 

' Fanny wrote often of her new home, and seemed 
happy. Henry had entered into mercantile busi- 
ness mth a partner of experience, and Mr. Mait- 
land hoped that Fanny might exercise a good 
influence over her husband, and flattered himself 
! that her prospects were better than he had feared ; 
I he had given her a handsome outfit, and she had 
' left the home that had sheltered her early years, 
with many tears, but confident' of the love of her 
husband, and full of bright anticipations for the 
i future. 

The parting between Father Bailey and his 
I flock was truly touching. He had secured the 
services of a zealous and devoted young priest to 
supply his place, but it was a severe trial to leave 
fe them. 

I; The children had grown up under his care, and 
loved him like a father. It was a pleasant sight to 
see them lingering about his house on a fine summer 
I day, after the school hours were over ; if he worked 
t in his garden for relaxation, as he frequently did, 
i gay groups might be seen following him about, 
i some with water-pots, or a tiny rake, fully per- 
( suaded that they were rendering essential service. 
; And did they not? Were they not the flowerets 
I and sunbeams of his life of loneliness and toil ? 

Bouquets of the earliest spring flowers, gathered 


144 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


by willing little hands, graced his pleasant cottage, 
and the sweetest and fairest blossoms, cultivated in 
the humble little patch at home, were culled for 
the altar; and how busy, important, and happy 
they looked on Saturday afternoon when they were 
allowed to sweep the Church, and decorate the 
altar with their humble little gifts. 

It is not wonderful that they were endeared to 
him by a thousand remembered acts of kindness 
and love. The approach of winter always brought 
him nice warm stockings and mufflers, more valued 
for the kind feeling that had prompted the offer- 
ing, than remarkable for the elegance of the shape 
or workmanship. Little presents of butter, cheese, 
or maple sugar came with the seasons ; and little 
Nellie O’Brien was the proudest and happiest child 
in the whole country side, when she trotted up to 
Father Bailey’s cottage, all by herself, with her 
tiny basket of eggs — the largest and nicest ever 
was seen — all laid by her own big black hen, with 
the splendid top-knot. 

Nor was old Maggie forgotten — ^there was 
always a good store of grain and fodder provided 
for the dear old crater that had borne her master 
so faithfully through the storms of winter and the 
scorching heats of summer, patiently plodding 
through the deep snow-drifts and blinding sleets, 
or toiling over some rough mountain pass, and ford- 
ing the wild streams that rushed with the headlong 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


145 


fury of a spring freshet, across his pathway, while 
he w^ent on his way to the bedside of the sick and 
dying, to carry the sweet consolations of the holy 
religion of which he was a faithful minister. 
Dear sober-minded old Maggie! she looked the 
very personitication of patience and meek perse- 
verance; and, as if she had a becoming sense 
: of the dignity of her station, from the way she 
: pricked up her ears, and manifested her satisfac- 
I tion, one would have thought that she appropriated 
to herself a part of the hearty welcome bestowed 
on her master. 

It is not to be wondered at that the parting be 
: tween pastor and people should have been a sorrow- 
ful one ; and when, on the Sunday preceding his 
departure, he reminded them of the tender relations 
I between them, thanking them for all their affection 
i and kindness to himself, and exhorting them to be 
I; faithful to the duties of their holy religion; to be 
^ sober, temperate and obedient, and attentive to the 
instructions of the new pastor, and earnestly en- 
,■ treated their prayers for himself, it was no strange 
!i thing that his emotion choked his utterance, and 
that when they crowded around to receive his 
parting blessing, the tears of the pastor and people 
were mingled together. 


13 



CHAPTER XI. 

Lizzie* s bright anticipations of the pleasure of a 
first sea voyage vanished, as such bright visions 
usually do, before the stern realities one encoun- 
ters amid the sights and sounds, smells and nausea 
of a steamship. 

The day they sailed from "New York was serene 
and lovely ; the sea calm and smooth ; for a while 
Lizzie had begun to look about and take note of 
her fellow-passengers. She had watched the fading 
outlines of the distant shores until they melted 
away into the dim horizon, and all around was 
only to be seen the blue wide waters ; the ceaseless 
play of the restless waves bound her as by a magic 
spell. She gazed, entranced, until the stars shone 
out, and until admonished by the disappearance, 
one by one, of her fellow-travellers, and her father’s 
voice, that it was time to retire. Poor Lizzie, she 
reached her state-room in safety, and had barely 
time to see that her mother was comfortably re- 


LIZZIE MAITLAOT). 


147 


posing, when sea and stars had lost all their glory, 

: and every energy was directed to the more com- 
; monplace necessity of untying knots and fastenings 

I that had never before seemed half so complicated. 
Poor Bridget’s efforts to render assistance were 
so awkward that she was dismissed, and the services 
of the stewardess most thankfully accepted, and Liz- 
zie appreciated their value, as she could not very 
j clearly perceive how they could be rendered unless 
i the poor girl had the faculty of w^alking on her head ; 
f for to her perceptions just then, stools, mirrors and 

I wash bowls were doubled, and sailed and ghded 
about her eyes in the most mcomprehensible 
manner. 

! For two days she kept her state-room, where 
I every thing was subject to this deplorable and un- 
i romantic confusion ; but she summoned resolution 
j after that to remain on deck, and soon forgot the 
1 nauseous horrors of the preceding days ; as the good 
steamer ploughed her way steadily through the 
weaves, she began to enjoy the fresh breezes, and to 
1 watch with increasing delight the white sails that 
i dotted the horizon. 

“ I don’t wonder,” said she to Father Bailey 
I one day, as they stood looking at a noble ship with 
I every sail set to catch the wind, which was favor- 
\ able — “ I don’t wonder that sailors think their full, 
flowing sheets a beautiful sight, and that they des- 
pise the steam vessels, with their noise and smoke. 

I 


148 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


There is truly something much more poetic in the 
motion, and the whole appearance of that splendid 
ship, than of ours, steaming along with the bare 
black pipes, and one or two blackened sails, and the 
heavy cloud of smoke foUo'vving us, and hanging 
over our heads like the memoiy of evil deeds.” 

“ Your admiration is all very well, standing here 
firmly as you do, on the deck of this good, substan- 
tial steamer ; but do you believe you would have 
found the roll of that noble ship, that you call so 
poetic now, quite as much to your taste a few 
days ago ? Did you not then find rolling rather 
an unpoetic motion ? ” said Father Bailey, with a 
quizzical expression. 

Lizzie laughed, and confessed that the “ practical 
utility of the steam and paddle wheels was worthy 
of consideration, and that poetry and sentiment 
were rather out of place in a state-room of a ship, 
more especially the first two days.” 

Mr. Maitland and Father Bailey were quite ex- 
empt from sea-sickness — and as Mr. Maitland was 
much occupied with his wife. Father Bailey was 
her constant companion; and they found many 
pleasant incidents to while away the tedium of the 
voyage. Mrs. Maitland was able to come on deck 
on pleasant days, and Lizzie had the satisfaction of 
seeing her mother improve, though rather slowly. 
She was cheerful, and appeared less languid. She 
found pleasant diversion occasionally in the society 


LIZZIE MAITLAm). 


149 


and conversation of some of her fellow-voyagers. 
There was one family party in which Lizzie took 
especial pleasure : it consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Elli- 
cott, their son, a young man of about twenty-three 
or four years, and a young girl, near her own age, 
the daughter of a relative of Mrs. Ellicott’s ; she had 
for some months past been very much out of health, 
and her parents had sent her abroad to regain her 
strength and spirits. Lizzie had, from the first 
time she saw her, been attracted by the pale, inter- 
esting countenance of the young Mary Heyward, 
and after a few days, the}’- had been drawn by 
closer ties, which it is necessary to explain. 

Mary Heyward was the daughter of wealthy 
parents, her father was a strict Presbyterian, brought 
up with the most exact New England precision ; 
a man of good intentions, strong prejudices, and 
an iron will that knew no shadow of turning ; his 
bigotry carried him to the length of proscription 
of all creeds and persons, whose religious faith did 
not accord with his own. He had taken a young 
Irish orphan and educated and converted him, as he 
himself said, to his own religious belief — ^had suc- 
ceeded in winning him, young as he was, from the 
Catholic faith, and had educated him to hate and pro- 
scribe all who did not reverence it, as he had done. 
As he grew to be a man, the selfish part of his nature 
had developed with his years, and his manhood 
found him ready to denounce and vilify the true 
13 * 


150 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


faith to please his patron, and advance his own pecu- 
niary interests ; and as he was represented as a con- 
vert to Protestantism, his words were listened to with 
eager avidity by the crowds whom he drew around 
by his eloquence — for he was not by any means de- 
ficient in intellect. He had persuaded himself that 
gratitude to his benefactor demanded that he should 
pursue a course to please him; and he adopted, 
without any question, the suggestion he made. His 
lectures drew immense crowds ; for when did error 
fail to attract ? and especially, when did abuse and 
vilification, directed against the Catholic Church, 
fail to find eager listeners and crowds of believers ? 

Mr. Heyward insisted that his wife and daugh- 
ter should attend these lectures of his protege. 
Mrs. Heyward was a mild, inoffensive woman, who 
seldom had much mind or will of her own, and as 
she never dared to cross her husband’s washes, so she 
accepted his religious creed, as she did every thing 
else that fell from his lips, as her law, and yielded 
implicit obedience. With Mary the case was dif- 
ferent ; possessing more of her father’s strength of 
intellect and firmness, mingled wdth more amiable 
feelings and less prejudice, she formed a much more 
reliable and lovable character. She obeyed her 
father from the force of habit and education, and 
w^ent to hear the lectures; at first listlessly, and 
with yawns that almost threatened to dislocate her 
jaws ; but, as she informed Lizzie, the amount of the 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


151 


abuse he heaped upon the Catholic religion, and 
I the whole Catholic community, roused up at last 
I indignant feelings in her breast ; it was so sweep- 
ing, so overwhelming, that she felt that it must be 
:j unjust, and it awakened a spirit of inquiry ; and she 
I determined to know, from lawful authority, what 
were really the dogmas of that faith that could 
!i call forth such unrelenting hatred and persecution, 
i When she asked an explanation, or indeed any 
I question concerning the Catholic faith, she was 
' answered by having printed lectures and Pam- 
1, phlets, books containing the most violent abuse 
I against them, put into her hands ; the consequence 
: was, as might have been expected from a generous 
I and candid mind, she became disgusted ; sh e felt that 
some good thing could come “ even out of N azareth.” 
j Accidentally she formed the acquaintance of a 
li young Catholic lady, and from her obtained books 
[ and information on the subject, that had begun to 
!' interest her more than she felt willing to admit 
even to herself. Her reading and examination had 
i; resulted in her becoming convinced of the truth 
l! of Catholicity, and its well substantiated claims to 
[ be obeyed as the one true Church, established by 
! Christ himself, and perpetuated through the minis- 
I try of his Apostles and their successors. 

I Then commenced in her own mind the fearful 
I struggle between her convictions and her habitual 
i: fear of her father’s authority. She knew his unre- 


152 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


leiiting animosity to the very name of Catholic; 
and she knew that from her mother she could not 
look for either counsel or support, for she was too 
timid to dream of resisting for a moment the will 
of her husband, whether it were just or unjust, 
even although it had clashed with her dearest in- 
terests, or the deepest affections of her soul. The 
struggle to hide her real feelings, and the contest 
in her own breast, threw Mary into a low fever, of 
which none could divine the cause ; her physician 
pronounced it a nervous affection ; and as all girls 
of her age are supposed susceptible of love, it was 
thought to be some unrequited attachment; and 
consequently she was sent to France, under the 
care of her father’s cousm, Mrs. Ellicott. 

Mrs. Ellicott was a sensible, amiable woman ; 
she had been educated, like Mr. Heyward, a Pres- 
byterian, but was without his bitter, unkind preju- 
dices. She had no hostilities against any human 
being ; it was almost the only reproach that Mr. 
Heyward would have brought against her, that she 
was too lenient in her feelings against evil of all 
kinds, and especially Catholicity; and had he sus- 
pected the state of his daughter’s mind, he would 
never have dreamed of trusting her out of his sight : 
, as it was, the mischief was already done, and through 
his own short-sightedness, the very measures he had 
taken to inspire her with dislike, were the means 
of opening her eyes to the beauty and holiness of 


LIZZIE MAITLAND, 


153 


I 




that faith that might have remained for ever a mys- 
tery. 

All this Lizzie learned from the pale lips of the 
poor young girl — now that she felt her health de- 
clining, she earnestly desired to be received into 
the Catholic Church. She had prayed for light to 
guide her, for grace to strengthen her weak re- 
solves, and she told Lizzie that she had determined 
to risk even her father’s anger, for she saw in the 
Scriptures he had himself taught her to revere, 
“that whoso loveth father or mother more than 
me, is not worthy of me.” And she desired, when 
she could have an opportunity, to consult Father 
Bailey. She expressed herself as if convinced that 
they had been thrown in her way, to decide her 
wavering resolutions. She requested Lizzie to 
keep these things locked in her own breast, until 
such time as she should give her liberty to reveal 
them. In answer to her question whether she did not 
intend to consult Mrs. Ellicott, she replied firmly 
and decidedly, “ No,” — that she did not wish to 
compromise Mrs. Ellicott with her father ; that his 
anger would be directed against her, and it could 
do no good — her determination was now too fully 
established to admit of any influence from that 
quarter ; and, in fact, she had resolved to put an 
end to the struggle that had cost her peace of 
mind, and very nearly her life, by doing what she 
considered her highest duty, without any more 


154 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


hesitation, and did not wish to he subjected to any 
annoyance until after the final stej) was taken ; she 
felt that she was about to take this step conscien- 
tiously, and from a motive of love to God. She 
had fervently prayed for light to guide her feet, 
and she regarded it as an answer to her prayer, 
that God had permitted her to take this journey, 
that she might have the opportunity to be free 
from any molestation, until she had been received 
in the Church ; when shC' trusted she should obtain 
graces that would enable her to fulfil her duty 
faithfully, and endure any persecution or trials that 
the Infinite Wisdom might see fit to send her. 

Lizzie threw her arms about her neck, and 
kissed her, and while tears of sympathy mingled 
with hers, she promised to aid her by her prayers, 
and thanked God, that He had surrounded her 
path with so many blessings, and spared her such a 
bitter trial, as she felt it would have been, to offend 
her father in a matter that so nearly concerned the 
salvation of her soul. 

In a few days our friends landed at Havre, and 
soon found themselves in comfortable lodgings in 
Paris. The Ellicotts were in another part of the 
city, but not so far separated as to prevent Lizzie 
and Mary from holding frequent intercourse. 
Father Bailey instructed Mary previous to her 
baptism, but told her she must inform her father 
of the step she had taken. He could not believe 


LIZZLE MAITLAJJD. 


155 


s that anv parent, and especially one of those who 
[ profess to inculcate into their children’s minds, 
i ti’eedom of religious opinions, and the right to 
! choose for themselves, would continue to cherish 
i: anger against a child who had been governed so 
t entirely by conscientious motives. Father Bailey, 

I in the kindness and simplicity of his heart, could 
! not comprehend the animosity, the bitter, unrelent- 
i ing hatred, that some Protestants feel for the Cath- 
j. olic religion, and against all who profess it. In the 
! retired position he had held, surrounded by a poor, 

I humble, but loving flock, persecution had not been 
his lot. There was nothing to awaken the jealousy 
J or hatred of other denominations, and he had spent 
his days in peace and security, though in fulfilling 
, his missionary duties in far distant parishes, he was 
often exposed to great toil and many hardships ; 
; but when the mind is at peace, the body can en- 
i dure much without sinking ; and he had been 
: cheered through his pilgrimage by the grateful 
I love of his people, and, above all, rich graces had 
i been bestowed upon him, and he was truly a man 
I of prayer, beloved of God ! 

I While they lingered in Paris Mr. Maitland was 
anxious that Lizzie should have the opportunity to 
} visit every place worthy of note, and spared no 
j pains to accomplish his designs. Amidst the new 
and attractive spectacles of the Old World, she 


156 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


found her early dreams fully realized, but her poor 
mother’s condition was a serious drawback to her 
pleasure. Mrs. Maitland’s health continued about 
the same, but the violent pains in the nerves of the 
eye, rendered them useless, as far as all practical 
purposes were concerned ; it is true she was able 
to distinguish persons and objects around her, but 
any attempt to fix them on a book or writing, sub- 
jected her to excruciating pain. Mr. Maitland de- 
termined to remam in Paris a month or two, to 
give his wife and Father Bailey the benefit of the 
best medical advice. The health of the latter had 
seemed benefited by the sea voyage ; his cough 
was somewhat diminished, but the physician said 
he needed at least a year of relaxation as there 
was a tendency to pulmonary disease. 

Mary had been received into the bosom of the 
Church, and after a few weeks spent in Paris, had 
gone Avith the Ellicotts to spend the winter in 
Rome. She had informed Mrs. Ellicott of the step 
she had taken, and by her advice delayed writing 
to her father. Mrs. Ellicott desired that Mary’s 
health should become more fully established before 
encountering the storm that she feared would be 
roused by the reception of such news from his 
daughter, and she knew that even the precarious 
state of her health would not prevent the expres- 
sion of the indignation and horror that he would 
feel. Mrs. Ellicott was too considerate and chari- 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


157 


table in her own feelings, to pain Mary by any at- 
tempt to unsettle her by arguments of her own ; 
she allowed the poor young girl to follow her own 
convictions unmolested. In fact, if the truth must 
be confessed, she was too indifferent to the sub- 
ject, to let it make any great difference in her own 
mind, and she rather shrank herself from the storm 
that she felt assured would burst over Mary’s head. 
She loved her like a daughter, and she more than 
half suspected that her own son was not indifferent 
to her, and she would have gladly claimed her by 
a dearer title ; she regretted Mary’s change more 
on account of the opposition her wishes in that re- 
spect might be likely to encounter, from Mary her- 
self, and perhaps Mr. Ellicott, than from any 
serious dislike she herself entertained. She had 
not much hope that Mary would, as Mr. Ellicott 
suggested, grow indifferent, and perhaps forget it, 
for something else. He had become so accustomed 
to new isms^ as he called them, that he regarded 
the whole affair as another sort of transcendental- 
ism, and thought that, like any other girl, she 
would exchange it soon for some other new-fangled 
notion. 

Mr. Ellicott had taken more note of stocks and 
politics, than of the workings of a young girl’s 
mind, and would have shown about as much skill 
in training it, as he would in directing the motions 
of a comet ; and although an amiable and sensible 
14 


158 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


man in his way, he would very soon have aban- 
doned in "dismay the task to the management of 
his wife, in whose tact and skill he had unlimited 
confidence. A flood of tears would have put him 
quite beside himself, and he would have been much 
more likely to offer his purse, or his watch, or any 
other fine thing that came to hand, than the appre- 
ciative sympathy and tenderness that would touch 
the spring of a young girl’s heart. 

He was an excellent husband and father, as the 
world goes, but he had too much of the common 
opinion, that, if women only have enough to eat 
and to drink and to wear, they are bound to be 
happy. All those aspirations of a delicately organ- 
ized soul, and the gratification of which affords the 
highest happiness, surpassed his comprehension, and 
unless she were really ill, it would seriously have 
puzzled him to understand, why a woman, sur- 
rounded with all these outward appliances, could 
allow a shade to rest on her brow ; he would, un- 
doubtedly, have set it down in his own mind, to 
the score of ill temper. It was fortunate for him 
that his wife had an excellent temper, good health, 
and few longings for any thing beyond his capacity 
to supply. Money he furnished liberally, and she 
spent it freely, and often charitably. Society would 
be ameliorated if there were more Mrs. Ellicotts ; 
she supplied a link between its different elements, 
and exercised a kindly and good influence as far as 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


159 


it extended. “ All she needed,” as Mary expressed 
herself to Lizzie, “ was the teachings and guidance 
of the Catholic rehgion, to make her one of the 
dearest and best of women.” ' 

Her son strongly resembled his mother in per- 
son and in character, though with a tinge of his 
father’s more choleric temper, subdued by more in- 
telligence and self-control. 


! 

i 

i 







CHAPTER XII. 

The Maitlands, who had remained in Paris a short 
time after the departure of their friends, were now 
anxious to join them in Rome, to be there during 
the season of Lent. Mr. Maitland had hoped that 
his wife would experience more benefit than she had 
received, from the advice of a distinguished phy- 
sician ; but as Mrs. Maitland seemed desirous to go, 
he yielded to her wishes. 

Lizzie wandered with her father through 
churches, ruined temples, and scenes hallowed by 
sacred memories and associations, her full heart 
throbbing with delight — ^her only regret, that her 
dear mother was unable to share it all with her ; 
and she strove by her glowing descriptions and 
graphic pictures, as she recounted to her all that 
interested and filled her ardent imagination, to give 
her a share of her own delight ; and she succeeded 
so far as to give her a great happiness, though it 
differed from what Lizzie intended. Mrs. Maitland 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


161 


appreciated her daughter’s motive, and made her 
happy m return, by the pleased and gratified man- 
ner with which she listened to her recitals, of the 
hallowed places, the tombs of the saints and mar- 
tyrs that she visited. She was able to drive out 
and she spent all the time that she felt inclined’ 

: withm the walls of St. Peter’s ; in their prolonged 
excursions she was unable to take part, but she 
: tound there enough to raise her soul, .and fill it with 
emotions that repaid her for alt the fatigues she 
had undergone. Mr. Maitland, through letters 
that had been given to Father Bailey and himself, 
round access to many places of deep interest to the 
: pious Catholic. 

: He was surprised and delighted at what he 

I found to be, actually, the moral and social condition 
i of the people, whom he had always been acous- 
, tomed to hear represented as ignorant and idle, 
vicious and degraded. Father Bailey and himself 
; visited the schools, where they were taught read- 
i ing and writing, and all the common branches of 
! education, gratuitously, and from a motive which 
I alone can insure a faithful discharge of duty, the 
, love ot God ! To all those who are too poor to 
1 provide for themselves, books and other necessaries 
I are furnished ; and they ascertained from personal 
I observation, that out of a population of one hun- 
[dred and eighty thousand, twenty-two thousand 
I children attend school daily, and were taught by 

i 14* 


162 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


the Christian Brothers to read and write, and 
were instructed in Christian doctrine by the same 
devoted band. 

They were informed, on high authority, and 
their own observation verified the truth of the as- 
sertion, that amid the populace any where, amongst 
the very poorest classes, there could be found 
seventy out of every hundred who could read and 
write. 

“ Oh ! ” said Mr. Maitland, “ how will this con- 
trast with Protestant England, who, amidst her 
boasted liberty and intelligence, enacted penal 
laws that made it a high crime for the Irish Cath- 
olic to teach his own child to read, and even as 
late as 1802 , these laws were enforced ; or, to turn 
to an earlier period, after the violation of the 
Treaty of Limerick, when every Catholic, by act of 
Parliament, incurred a forfeiture of all his property, 
present or future^ if he, whether adult, or child in 
its earliest infancy, attended in Ireland a school 
kept by a Catholic ; or if a Catholic child, however 
young, was sent to a foreign country for education, 
such infant child incurred the same penalty ; or if 
any person in Ireland made a remittance of money 
for the maintenance of such child, he incurred a 
similar forfeiture ; these, as near as my recollection 
serves me,” continued Mr. Maitland, “ are the 
words of the Act of Parliament, by which the poor 
Catholic was deprived of the right and power to 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


163 


educate his child ; and while similar acts deprived 
him virtually of the right to hold property, he was 
reproached, and is still, for his poverty and igno- 
rance.” (See O’Connell’s Memoir on Ireland, Na- 
tive and Saxon, page 6.) 

“ It is all too true,” said Father Bailey, with a 
sigh ; “ and the law in regard to property was even 
more galling than the other, for it directly encour- 
aged the child to rebel against his father. ‘If 
the eldest son of a Catholic father, at any age^ de- 
clared himself a Protestant, he thereby made his 
father strict tenant for life, deprived the father of 
all power to sell or dispose of his estate, and such 
Protestant son became entitled to the absolute do- 
minion and ownership of the estate ; ’ or, ‘ if a 
Catholic had a horse worth more than five pounds, 
any Protestant tendering five pounds to the Catho- 
lic owner, was by law entitled to take the horse, 
though worth fifty pounds, or a hundred, or more, 
and keep him as his own ; and if he concealed his 
horse from any Protestant, the Catholic, for the 
crime of concealing his own horse^ was liable to be 
punished by an imprisonment of three months, and 
a fine of three times the value of the horse.’ (See 
O’Connell’s Memoir, page 5.) And yet,” con- 
tinued he, “ these people, who have for long years 
been oppressed, and impelled, by every instinct of 
self-preservation, to duplicity, are taunted with 
their ignorance, poverty, and vices. Ah ! who is 


164 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


responsible for these evils ? Who placed this yoke 
on their necks, and crushed them down in the 
dust ? Yet this nation in her pride, and the arro- 
gance of prosperity, dares to lift her haughty 
front, and point her finger over the graves of her 
Irish subjects, at the stains of slavery on her sis- 
ter’s brow, and to pronounce other nations as de- 
graded and fallen, and less prosperous than herself. 
Who shall decide between them ? Can all the 
armies and navies of the world, or the millions of 
gold in her cofiers, buy an abatement of one iota 
of the judgment against this iniquity, or make the 
ignorant and depressed subjects of England be- 
lieve themselves happier and more contented, than 
the simple, joyous, intelligent populace of Italy ? 
If wealthy alone^ is the standard of national pros- 
perity^ and the happiness, morals, intelligence and 
faith, and contentment, are to be thrown out of 
the scale, there are few nations of the earth who 
will not yield the palm to England ; but the woe 
pronounced upon him who receiveth all his good 
things in this life, may it not extend also to na- 
tions ? ” 

Father Bailey paused, for he had been betrayed 
into unusual warmth, and they continued their 
walk in silence. 



CHAPTER XIIT. 

“ Oh, I am so glad you have come at last,” said 
Mary, as she embraced Lizzie ; “ I have such an 
agreeable acquaintance to introduce to you ; he is 
a Catholic, and a convert, and I am certain you 
I will admire him as much as I do. He had been 
several months in Rome when we came, and has, 
since we knew him, been exceedingly polite and 
kind in accompanying us to all the places most in- 
teresting to visitors, and especially Catholics, and 
which I, poor body, could never have found out 
by myself. For my part, I am greatly indebted to 
him, but I believe poor Charlie Ellicott regards 
1 him with not quite so amiable a feeling.” 

[ “Why,” said Lizzie, laughingly interrupting 
; her, “ have you been flirting with your new friend, 
to tease your old beau ? ” 

; “ How, Lizzie, you are too bad, to talk such 

i nonsense, and besides, I have not been flirting, to 
i tease any one ; and Charles Ellicott is unreasona- 




166 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


ble, and had no right whatever to feel offended or 
piqued, and to say so ill-naturedly that Mr. Lee 
seemed to imagine that nobody but himself could 
find out the interesting localities in Rome.” 

“ Mr. Lee ! ” said Lizzie, suddenly, and chang- 
ing color. “ What Mr. Lee ? ” 

“ Mr. Edward Lee, of Boston — a young, intelli- 
gent, handsome man — ^luch, and above all, and to 
be serious,” said Mary, “ a good Catholic, and 
one of the most agreeable men I ever met. But 
Lizzie,” said she, casting a penetrating glance on 
her friend, that made the rich color deepen on her 
cheek, “ why do you ask — do you know him ? ” 

“Yes,” she replied, “that is, I believe I do — 
he is a dear friend of mine — I mean of my parents, 
and,” continued she, hastily, and still blushing 
deeper, as Mary fixed her eyes full upon her, with 
a scrutinizing look, “ I owe him great obligation, 
for he rescued my dear parents from a horrible 
fate,” and Lizzie recounted the scene in Montreal, 
to divert Mary from her scrutiny, which seemed, 
for some reason, to have been particularly painful 
to her. 

Search a little deeper yourself, Lizzie Maitland. 
What was it that made you shrink away, and gave 
you the sudden pang for which you are even now 
condemning yourself as selfish, when you heard of 
his kind attentions bestowed upon another, and 
saw the sparkle of pleasure in her eye that told 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


167 


how acceptable they were? Yes — search truly, 
Lizzie ! You said you told himself that you had 
only thought of him as a brother — it would surely 
cause you no pang to see a brother, ever so ten- 
derly beloved, appreciate one you love so dearly as 
Mary. 

“ He will be very glad to meet you again, no 
doubt,” said Mary. “ I will bring him to see you ! ” 

Lizzie — ^there it is again, that sharp pang ! “ I 

will bring him to see you ! ” What ails you ? 
Why are you not willing that Mary, your dear 
friend, should bring your old acquaintance, whom 
you value “ next to your own family,” to see you ? 
You are quite incomprehensible, Lizzie ! 

“ Or stay to-day and dine with us,” continued 
Mary. “ Mr. Lee will be here at dinner, and I am 
sure he will be glad to see any of my friends, and 
most of all, you ; do stay, I will send word to your 
mother, and she will not feel any uneasiness.” 

ISTo, you cannot ! (You mean, will not.) How 
is it that your dear mother so suddenly requires 
all your thought and care? Where is Bridget? 
Your mother was better than usual when you came 
out to visit Mary, and now you must hurry home ! ! 
I am afraid. Miss Lizzie Maitland, after all the care 
bestowed on you, you have yet a great deal to 
learn — you are still very ignorant of the workings 
of that young heart of yours. You have been a 


168 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


great dreamer all your life, but you have not at- 
tained to any great skill in reading it. 

“ Oh, Lizzie ! don’t disappoint me so much ; I 
have a thousand things to tell you, and if you hurry 
away, I cannot think of half of them. I am sure 
your mother can spare you a little while this morn- 
ing.” 

But Lizzie was in no mood to listen, and for 
some reason unaccountable to herself, she shrank 
from meeting Edward Lee that day, and persisted 
in returning home. 

“Well, Lizzie, if you will go,” said Mary, “ wait 
for me, and I will get ready and walk with you to 
visit an old church that is just in your way; 
there is a beautiful picture there, which Mr. Lee 
said was worth taking pains to see. You will like 
to look at it, and you can spare time enough for 
that ; perhaps we may find him there, he visits the 
church often.” 

Poor Lizzie for the first time found Mary’s 
society oppressive — ^how she longed to be alone — 
she felt such a sense of pain at her heart, and such 
a choking at the throat, as if something must 
burst out in spite of herself. She was sure she was 
unamiable and unkind to wish to get rid of Mary, 
and yet she could hardly resist the inclination that 
impelled her to fly away — any where, to be alone — 
pictures were all alike to her now ; she could see 
shades of red and blue — Changing in folds — eyes. 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


169 


noses, and mouths, on pink faces — but what sort 
of a whole they composed, she was unable to re- 
member. She had an indistinct notion of virgins 
and lilies — angels and wings — saints and skulls — 
mixed up with gleams of sunshine — “ light and 
shadow,” — as Mary said, “ beautiful, exquisite color- 
ing.” 

“I>o look, Lizzie, how the sunlight falls and 
rests like a glory above the head of that saint.” 

“Yes,” murmured Lizzie, but no ray of that 
sunlight penetrated into her heart ; it was not her 
wont to be 'so dull to the voice of nature, beauty 
or friendship. She was in constant dread — and 
yet she could not tell why — lest Edward Lee 
should enter the church, and at last she insisted so 
strenuously that she must return to her mother, 
and that Mary must stay longer to enjoy the paint- 
ings, that Mary consented, and wondered what 
made Lizzie Maitland so silent and unhke herself, 
but she soon forgot about it amid the master-pieces 
of art by which she was surrounded. 

“ Why, my love, how pale and fatigued you 
look ; do go to your room and rest yourself,” was 
her mother’s first salutation as she entered her 
chamber. 

Lizzie threw her arms around her mother’s 
neck, leaned her head on her bosom, and wept 
softly and silently. 

“ My precious darling, you must not fatigue 
15 


170 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


yourself so much with these long walks, you will 
make yourself ill — your head is quite hot — ^it is 
aching now — I am sure it is. My dear child, you 
must be more careful,” and she looked so con- 
cerned, that Lizzie raised her head, and smiling 
pleasantly, assured her mother that she was quite 
well, and ready to read to her, if she wished. But 
Mrs. Maitland still insisted that she looked too 
much fatigued, and must go and rest herself. 

Lizzie retired to her own room, and casting 
herself on her knees, she wept freely for a few 
moments, then she prayed to he forgiven every 
sinful repining thought, and for strength to fulfil 
every duty, and for resignation to the wiU of God ; 
she arose calm and peaceful, and threw herself 
upon a little couch, and soon fell into a refi-eshing 
slumber. 

Poor Lizzie ! that sharp pang that shot through 
your breast is quiet now — you distrust your own self, 
and dare not answer, if you could, why you should 
have felt it. You acknowledged that Mary was 
every way worthy of the interest and regard that 
Edward had bestowed upon her, and you surely 
do not claim from him even a brother’s attention 
now. 

It is true, she had felt slighted and hurt. 
She thought, not so much on her oxon account as 
on that of her parents, that Edward had not called 
to see them sooner after their arrival. Ah ! you 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


in 

forget, Lizzie, how coldly you dismissed him. He 
remembers, still, perhaps — ^and you forget that the 
human heart and its affections will not always do 
our bidding ; it has impulses of its own that some- 
times scorn all control. Edward may not feel in- 
clined to intrude again where he has been so de- 
cidedly repulsed — pride may have found a little 
lurking place in his heart, as well as your own. 
But he must not have injustice done him; and 
while Lizzie lies in so sweet a slumber, we will ex- 
plain why it was that he had not before visited the 
Maitlands. 

He was absent from the city when they first 
arrived, and had not heard of their coming until 
the day before, and he had called that very morn- 
ing ; but Mrs. Maitland never saw any company in 
the morning, and as Lizzie was out, the servant 
had forgotten to mention it. Edward had not left 
a card, for the simple reason that he did not happen 
to have one with him ; and as he intended to re* 
peat his visit very soon, he had only said to the 
servant that he would come again, without giving 
his name. 

It is true, he had at first felt a httle shrinking 
when he remembered the parting between Lizzie 
and himself, but he had struggled with and resisted 
the feeling of wounded pride. Resentment he 
had never entertained ; and left Maitlandville im- 
mediately after that interview, and had spent his 


172 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


time, not in cherishing morbid and unmanly senti- 
ments, nor in endeavoring to forget Lizzie. No ; 
he loved her even more fondly than ever, but 
with an unselfishness that would not have permitted 
him to desire her to unite her destiny with his, if 
her affections were not entirely his own, and unless 
he had believed that her happiness would be se- 
cured by it, although it would have cost him a 
severe pang, as it did, to resign her. 

He had spent several months in Rome before 
the arrival of the Ellicotts, and it had been very 
agreeable to him to meet a party of Americans, 
and he had found in Mary a sensible and intelligent 
companion, and although his affections had never 
wavered, he had devoted himself to making her 
visit pleasant by directing her attention to such 
objects 'as were particularly to Catho- 

lics. 

Poor Charles EUicott had been excessively an- 
noyed at what he chose to consider his interference ; 
he could not understand the attraction between 
converts, and, with his jealous eye, had attributed 
the evident pleasure on both sides to the dawning 
of mutual affection, and he had punished himself 
and his friends by the indulgence of his jealous 
fancies. 

Mrs. Ellicott understood these things better, 
and would gladly have interpreted for her son and 
set matters right, but he was too proud to acknowl- 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


173 


edge his wounded feelings to his mother, or to per- 
mit any approaches on her part, and so the matter 
stood when Lizzie arrived, 
j Mary was happy in her newly acquired peace 
I of mind, and her health had improved very much. 

I It is true that she looked forward to the encounter 
j with her father with dread, and shrank from it, 
but the young girl was not in a mood just then for 
falling in love with any body. She liked Charles 
! EUicott very much, in fact it had been a sort of 
! childish cousinly attachment, not mry tender on 
i her part, but of late his ill humors had rather 
j checked the feeling. She did not quite understand 
the motive, and had done him some injustice in her 
; own mind by attributing it to mere personal dislike 
! of Edward, and did not regard it with the leniency 
i that might have been expected from a young girl 
of nineteen for the jealousy and caprice which 
she herself had excited. She loved Mrs. EUicott, 
and was grateful to her for the kind consideration 
she had shown for her recently avowed sentiments ; 
and no mother could have been more tender and 
anxious for the re-establishment of her health. 



15 * 



CHAPTER XIV. 

“ Lizzie, my love, here is something your father has 
brought that will cure your headache,” said Mrs. 
Maitland, holding up several letters. 

“ From dear Fanny ! ” exclaimed Lizzie, eagerly 
seizing it in her hand. “ Where have they been 
so long delayed ? See, mamma, the date is quite 
an old one.” 

“ They should have reached us before we left 
Paris, I think. But read them, Lizzie, you will 
find something to give you pleasure ; your father 
has read me his, which I think contains the most 
interesting incident,” said Mrs. Maitland, smiling. 

“ Oh mamma, how happy dear Fanny must be 
now ! ” said Lizzie, glancing rapidly over her letter, 
and soon discovering the important news, which 
was no less than the announcement of the birth of 
a beautiful son, whom she had named William 
Maitland, after her uncle, and she had written an 
affectionate letter to announce to him the joyful 


UZME MAITLAND. 


176 


event, and to inform him that he had been chosen 
godfather. 

“ The blessed little darling ! how I wish I could 
see him and kiss him this very moment. I feel as 
if I could not wait,” said Lizzie, rapturously, 
i “And she says he has bright black eyes like 
1 his father, and his nose turns up the slightest bit 
I in the world, about as much as yours^ dear Lizzie,” 
continued she, reading Fanny’s comments on the 
beauty of her child. 

“ Why the impertinent little minx, to insinuate 
that my nose is not strictly a model of beauty, 
indeed ! But I will forgive her, for doubtless she 
intends it as a compliment, since she sees the re- 
semblance in her own baby. And now, mamma,” 
said Lizzie, all alive to the importance of this joy- 
ful event, “ Master Willie must have one of those 
exquisitely embroidered little robes that I was ad- 
miring the other day. Oh I do hope that the box 
of pretty things we sent off has reached her before 
this time. Dear Fanny ! she must be very happy 
with her boy, but no doubt she feels as if she could 
enjoy it better if she could ‘ place it on your knee 
and see you kiss it, and hear papa call it a beauti- 
ful child ; ’ she says he would. Poor dear Fanny ! ” 
sighed Lizzie, after a little pause, “ I hope she has 
found kind friends to supply our place, but they 
cannot love her half so well, and she seems to feel 
herself, as if we were never half so dear before. 


176 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


I hope Henry is tender and kind, and loves her as 
much as she thought he would always.” 

“ I hope so,” said Mrs. Maitland with a sigh, 
as if she had some misgivings that she would not 
breathe aloud. She had always feared for Famiy’s 
happiness. Henry had been so much indulged, 
and so little accustomed to self-control, or to the 
practice of self-denial in any way, that she had 
always felt that Fanny was subjecting herself to 
severe trials by intrusting her happiness to the keep- 
ing of one who put so little restraint upon his o^vn 
passions, but she hoped every thing from Fanny’s 
affection and good influence, and she silently 
breathed a prayer that the birth of this little one 
might act as an incentive to exertion on his part, 
and that he would be aroused to industry and ac- 
tivity for the sake of his young wife and child. 

Soon after Henry’s marriage, his father died 
suddenly, leaving his estates so embarrassed that 
there was no prospect of saving any thing from the 
wreck ; but Henry’s business had proved lucrative, 
and with a moderate share of perseverance on his 
part, Mr. Maitland hoped that he would soon secure 
an independence, if not a fortune for himself and 
Fanny. Her uncle had given her a handsome outfit 
at her marriage, and so far as worldly affairs were 
concerned, he flattered himself that his beloved niece 
had a prospect of competence and comfort, if not of 
the great wealth that Henry had expected from his 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


177 


[ father. On the whole, Mr. Maitland had felt that 
it would ultimately prove a benefit to him by 
making him realize the necessity for exertion, and 
be the means of his becoming a thorough busi- 
ness man. 

Mr. Maitland had appeared very much gratified 
' that Fanny had given his name to her boy — and 
she had pretty substantial proof of it some time 
after ; when the well-filled box arrived, she found 
many things for the little Willie, as well as herself, 
besides the “ pretty embroidered dress.” Even 
Bridget had contributed her mite, in the shape of 
I some nice little worsted socks, knitted by her own 
I hands for “ Miss Fanny’s baby.” 

I Lizzie was interrupted in the perusal of her 
I letters by the entrance of Mary Heywood, who 
came to announce that Mrs. Ellicott and Edward 
I Lee were waiting to see them, and that they came to 
I jiropose a drive to Mrs. Maitland and herself. Poor 
j; Lizzie, the color flushed into her cheeks when she 
' recollected the uncomfortable feelings she had but 
just succeeded in stifling, and she felt as guilty 
and almost as much embarrassed as if Mary and 
I Edward Lee were aware of what had been passing 
in her own mind. 

. Mrs. Maitland was delighted to meet Mr. Lee, 

! and her welcome was so cordial and sincere, that 
( it entirely relieved Edward of any constraint that 
I he would otherwise have felt. She invited him to 


178 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


visit them often, to come with the freedom of a 
beloved and dear friend, as she assured him both 
Mr. Maitland and herself considered him. Mrs. , 
Maitland declined to drive out, but insisted that | 
Lizzie should go. Mrs. EUicott declared her inten- “ 
tion of remaining with her, and so it was decided 
that Lizzie and Mary should go, while she chatted 
with Mrs. Maitland until their return. 1 

Lizzie had so successfully schooled herself (and S 
the news from Fanny had helped to divert her J 
thoughts), that she was soon able to meet Edward f \ 
and converse with him freely, and without any of I 
the embarrassment that would have oppressed her^ 
in the morning. J ' 

“ Have you heard from your cousin lately. Miss 
Maitland ? ” said Edward. 

“ I have this moment finished reading letters I 
from her, that have announced the birth of a son,” 1 
Lizzie replied, and laughingly repeated Fanny’s W 
comments on the beauty of the child, and the re- 1 
semblance she traced to herself — “ but, so far,” she 1 
added, “from increasing my humility, I fear it- 
will have a contrary efiect, feeling, as I do, so well 
assured of the high estimation in which she holds 
her child’s beauty.” 

“You must have missed your cousin’s society, 
very much ? ” said Edward. . 1 

“ I have indeed replied Lizzie, “ it was the 
first separation since our childhood, and of course 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


179 


was a very painful thing to us all, and to my father 
especially, to have Fanny go so far from us. It 
would not have been half so much of a trial to part 
from her if she could have remained near us. But 
she appears to like her new home, and has written 
me some very amusing descriptions of the new 
phases of life she has seen. I wish she were with 
us here,” continued she, with a sigh. 

“I suppose,” said Edward, “that with your 
father and Father Bailey to guide you, you have 
seen every thing of interest in Rome.” 

“ Oh, not every thing ! ” replied Lizzie. “ I 
have visited all the usual places of resort, and some 
I believe to which access is only gained by those 
who are really led by faith and devotion, and 
through the influence of some one having authority' 
to grant permission, — but I have been shocked in 
the Churches by the want of— I will not say rever- 
ence — ^but common decency of deportment, dis- 
played by some among the crowds whom I have 
met, and I am sorry to be obliged to confess that 
my own countrymen and countrywomen were 
among them. I heard an American lady relating, 
in rather a boastful way, to a friend, not long since, 
of what I considered the gross rudeness of her be- 
havior on one occasion, when some good, simple- 
hearted monk had, according to her own account, 
been taking unwearied pains to show her some 
objects her curiosity prompted her to visit, and 


180 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


which Ae, at least, considered sacred ^ — and she 
went on to relate, as a good joke — ^but, as I con- 
sidered, in very had taste, to say the least, if not 
gross vulgarity — how she had been nearly suffo- 
cated with laughter at the adroit and ingenious 
manner that her brother had drawn one of them 
out, and led him on, for her amusement^ to show 
them, and to explain what she called their absurd 
tricks and mummeries — and all this after, as she 
herself acknowledged, they had shown them un- 
limited hospitality ; for it was no less than the good 
monks of St. Bernard, whose simplicity she was 
ridiculing.” 

“ I have experienced the same sort of thing,” 
said Edward, “having been thrown accidentally 
in companionship, in travellmg, with a countryman 
of mine, who behaved in a similar manner; and 
really on several occasions he subjected me to deep 
mortification by the lawlessness of his behavior. 
He seemed for a time determined to persist in fol- 
lowing me about, as if I were a sort of guide ; he 
was a man of no refinement and very little educa- 
tion, I should judge, but possessing a large income, 
which he had very little idea how to spend satisfac- 
torily ; he seemed to have the propensity so com- 
mon amongst our people, to distinguish himself by 
writing and carving his name in full in all con- 
spicuous places ; he was anxious to collect memen- 
toes of the different objects of interest that he saw, 


LIZZIE AIAITLAND. 


181 


and he carried with him a sort of cane, something 
between that and a hammer, with which he broke 
off and chipped out pieces of whatever came in 
his way, without much discrimination. On one 
occasion, when we had climbed to the dome of St. 
Peter’s, where, you recollect, are large mosaic rep- 
resentations of the Apostles, he irreverently gouged 
out a stone which formed a part of the eye of one 
of them, and bore it off triumphantly in his pocket ; 
and at another time, in passing La Scala, which mul- 
titudes, absorbed in their devotions, were ascending 
on their knees, he, taking it for granted that there 
was something to be seen at the top, rushed half- 
way up, and was proceeding composedly to the 
summit, until admonished by the bayonets of the 
gens d’armes, who guarded the spot. That was a 
language which even his obtuseness could compre- 
hend. He constantly reminded me of a dog who 
has lost his master in church, and rushes about, 
here and there, and with about as keen an appre- 
ciation of the sanctity of the place, and who is 
every moment in danger of being kicked out for 
some gross intrusion or violation of the solemnity 
of the spot.” 

“ I feel certain,” said Lizzie, “ that if some of 
those persons who thoughtlessly commit these in- 
decencies, were aware of the pain they give others, 
they would put some restraint upon themselves, at 
least in church, during divine service, or else stay 
16 


182 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


away, if they cannot refrain from acts which appear 
to Catholics disrespectful and unkind.” 

“ Some of them,” said Edward, “ who are not 
quite so thoughtless as you seem to believe them 
to be, but go there expressly to sneer and ridicule, 
if they could see what a ridiculous figure they cut, 
might be restrained by a motive of pride, if not 
of self-respect^ (for they show themselves deficient 
in that by their disregard of the feelings of others,) 
in their exhibitions of ill-timed levity.” 

“ Look, Lizzie ! ” said Mary, who had sat silent 
for some time, “ look back — can you realize that it 
is Rome, the proud, imperial city, the home of 
conquerors, that we read and dreamt of in child- 
hood — that those domes and spires, pointing 
heavenward, and bathed in the sunlight, cover the 
ashes of the saints and martyrs of our holy reli- 
gion — that it is Rome, the home of the early 
Christians ? ” 

Lizzie turned, and her eyes swam with tears as 
they wandered over the fair scene — the sweet tones 
of the far-ofi* chimes, and the faint note of some 
convent bell, mingling with the distant hum of 
busy life, awoke an echo in her soul. As she caught 
a view of Mary’s pale face, she thought she had 
never seen her look half so beautiful. A delicate 
flush was on her cheek, and her eyes sparkled with 
unwonted brilliancy, as she sat lost in thoughtful 
contemplation. Lizzie seemed struck by the love- 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


183 


liness of her countenance. And when she saw 
Edward Lee’s eyes fixed upon her with an admir- 
ing and tender gaze, as she believed, there came 
again the old pang — and though Lizzie strove to 
regain her spirits, and charged herself over again 
with cruel selfishness, she could not shake off the 
oppression she felt. She fancied every tone and 
gesture of Edward’s were full of tenderness towards 
Mary. She grew gradually reserved, without her- 
self being aware of the change in her manner. 
There was a momentary silence, each having food 
for thought as they drove over the Appian-way to 
visit the Church of St. Sebastian, which marks the 
spot where he suffered martyrdom, — the chief en- 
trance to the Catacombs is beneath it. 

The eyes might rest here and there on the ruins 
of broken arches of the Claudian aqueduct — the 
shrine of Egeria, and the tomb of Cecilia Metella 
— ^the rank vegetation which had sprung up, cover- 
ing in many places openings to the Catacombs, 
added to the desolate appearance of the Campagna. 
The silence, broken only by the roll of the carriage- 
wheels, increased in Lizzie’s breast the feeling of 
oppression. Alighting, they entered the church, 
and wandered from altar to altar — its solemn still- 
ness would have awakened in the most careless 
and irreverent some emotions of interest, as the 
mind reverted to the past, to the throngs whose 
footsteps had trodden these pavements. They 


184 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


paused, and gazed down the stone steps that led 
to the Catacombs beneath, without a wish to de- 
scend ; but it would have been impossible to pass 
lightly by this refuge of the early Christians — the 
graves of so many martyi’S, and not to feel that it 
was a sacred and solemn place. 

Edward related to them the sad history of the 
party of youths, nearly thirty in number, who, 
together with their teacher, had descended into the 
Catacombs, and had been lost in their intricacies, 
and even their remains had never been discovered, 
though diligent search had been made for them ; 
the sad event was sthl fresh in the memory of the 
guides — and also the more fortunate escape of the 
young French artist, who, in his zeal to copy in- 
scriptions, and make an accurate representation of 
different parts of these subterranean passages, had 
extinguished his light accidentally, and was unable 
to find the string, which was his only clue to guide 
him through their windings. Just as he was on the 
point of sinking from despair into this living tomb, 
he stumbled and fell, and providentially laid his 
hand upon the slender cord which was to guide 
him from the gloom and darkness of despair and 
death, to the light of hope and life again. 

“ But it will not answer to prolong our stay ; it 
is growing already chilly, and will be injurious to 
you. Miss Heyward,” said he ; “ allow me to bring 
your shawls.” So saying, he hurried away, and in 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


185 


a few moments returned, bringing them, which 
they had left in the carriage — he stopped, and 
carefully adjusted Mary’s around her delicate figure, 
and turning towards Lizzie, he hesitated slightly — 
she reached out her hand to receive hers in a way 
so cold and constrained, that Edward felt repulsed 
— he scarcely could tell why — and bowing politely, 
he gave it into her hand without any attempt to 
assist her in arranging it. 

Mary had turned back to gaze once more at the 
church, and her thoughts were of the youthful 
Sebastian, transfixed by the arrows, and the Holy 
Martyrs who slept in the crypts and rock-hewn 
tombs beneath. 

Their drive homeward was more silent than be- 
fore : in the mind of each had been awakened a 
train of reflection which, though different in char- 
acter, had absorbed them equally. They found 
Mrs. Maitland and Mrs. Ellicott had begun to ex- 
perience some anxieties on account of their pro- 
longed stay, and Mrs. Ellicott expressed some fears 
for Mary’s health, but she assured her she was quite 
well, and well guarded against the danger of colds, 
and interested her by relating where they had been, 
and she soon forgot her anxieties. 

Mr. Maitland had returned, and was much de- 
lighted to meet Edward again ; he engrossed him 
in conversation, and between two such minds there 
were many subjects of interest to be discussed ; 

16 * 


186 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


and when they rose to depart, he shook Edward by 
the hand again very warmly, and begged him to re- 
peat his visits often, and with so cordial and friendly 
a manner, that it was impossible for him not to 
promise to do so. 

These drives, walks and visits were often re- 
peated, nearly always with the addition of Charles 
EUicott. 

Edward continued to treat Lizzie with gentle 
kindness and respect, but never renewed his former 
devotion. He thought he perceived a coldness in 
her manner towards him, which he interpreted into 
a determination to adhere to her former resolu- 
tion — while she put a check on her feelings lest the 
increasing esteem and admiration which grew out 
of such constant intercourse, might be perceived 
on his part. Now that she had convinced her- 
self that his affections were bestowed on another 
object, she would have died rather than have 
him suspect the nature of her sentiments towards 
him. 

Through all these little misunderstandings, it 
generally turned out that Lizzie was almost invari- 
ably thrown with Charles Ellicott, who avoided 
Mary through pique and wounded pride; and 
Lizzie, though she half suspected his feelings, sub- 
mitted to it, because she really believed that the 
society of Edward Lee was so much more agreea- 
ble to Mary. 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


187 


Matters went on thus — the end of Lent had 
come — and through Passion and Holy weeks, 
Edward, in company with Father Bailey, was un- 
wearied in his endeavors to gratify them by pro- 
curing the means of entrance to every church or 
chapel that could interest them. 

“ Why,” said Lizzie, one day in one of their ram- 
bles, to Father Bailey — “why do we find a fish 
used as a symbol of faith among the early Chris- 
tians ? it is hot nearly as beautiful or significant as 
the cross.” 

“ It was a sign the early Christians adopted,” 
he replied, “ as an expression of what they wished 
to embody, and one that their heathen foes would 
not be likely to detect — it has been said that the 
idea was originally derived from a Greek word sig- 
nifying fish, which contains the initials of Jesus 
Christ the Son of God our Saviour. And Ter- 
tullian says, the fish seems a fit emblem of Him 
whose spiritual children are like the ofispring of 
fishes, born in the waters of baptism. The Primi- 
tive Christians designated themselves sometimes 
by the appellation of Pisciculi or fishes.” 

“Why do Catholics use holy water?” asked 
Mary. 

“It was a custom of the very first ages, not 
only to deposit vessels of water at the entrance of 
places where Christians assembled for the celebra- 
tion of divine worship, but also to have vases con- 


188 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


taining water mingled with salt, both of which 
had been separated from common use, and blessed 
by the prayers and invocations of the priest. In 
the book of Exodus we read that the Lord issued i 
the following directions to Moses: ‘Thou shalt 
make a brazen layer with its foot, to wash in : and 
thou shalt set it up between the tabernacle of the 
testimony and the altar : and the water being put ' 
into it, Aaron and his sons shall wash their hands 
and feet in it, when they are going into the taber- 
nacle of the testimony, and when they are to 
come to the altar to offer on it incense to the 
Lord.’ 

“ It was also a custom among the Jews to wash 
the hands before presuming to pray. The Church 
has adopted this, and several other Jewish cere- . 
monies, which she engrafted on her ritual. St. j 
Paul says to Timothy, ‘I will that men pray in [ 
every place, Hftiilg up pure hands.’ In the early . 
ages the faithful used to wash their hands before \ 
entering the church, and in some places there ' 
used formerly to be fountains made to spring up 
just before the portals of some magnificent churches, \ 
where the faithful might wash their hands before 
entering. I saw the other day a fresco painting in 
the Catacombs, when I had the pleasure of enter- i 
ing the church of St. Agnes, that proves that the ! 
sprinkling of holy water at their religious ceremo- \ 
nies, was common among the early Christians. It i 


189 


^ LIZZIE MAITLAND. 

I represents five figures, each holding in his hand a 
vase, similar to that in which holy water is carried 
about in our ceremonies; four of them bear palm 
branches in their right hand, and the fifth carries 
^ uplifted an aspergillum, which corresponds exactly 
i to the one which is still employed at the ceremony 
I of sprinkling holy water.” (See Rock. Hierugia, 
i ^ page 668.) 

I Holy Week is the all-engrossing season to the 
truly pious Catholic heart. Palm Sunday, Mary 
wished to know the object of the ceremony of 
blessing the palms. 

Father Bailey told her, it was to remind Chris- 
tians of the Saviour’s triumphal entry into Jerusa- 
lem, when the multitudes received him with palms 
like a great victor. The Church wishes to sanctify 
every thing which her children use, for the purpose 
of religion, by prayer and the word of God, that 
is why they are placed at the side of the altar and 
blessed, before distribution ; it is an ancient ob- 
servance of the Church, it was a practice well 
i known in Italy as early as the fourth and fifth cen- 
turies, and at an earlier period in the East. Dur- 
ing the distribution of the palms, the choir sings 
passages taken from the gospels describing the 
occurrences which are commemorated. 

To Mary this wu,s even a more blessed season 
than to the others ; she enjoyed it above them, 
because she was yet in all the freshness and fervor 


190 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


of her newly-found faith, and she gathered strength 
for the coming conflicts. 

On Holy Thursday, or Maundy Thursday, (as 
it is called, from the Mandatum^ or command 
given by the Saviour for washing the feet,) ' 
there is a more than ordinary solemn celebration, 
to honor the anniversary of that day on which the , 
Saviour instituted the holy sacriflce of the Mass v 
and the blessed Eucharist, and our fi*iends visited 
the different churches,’" and knelt in pious adoration , 
before the adorable sacrament. \ 

During the tenebrae service in the Sistine 
Chapel, Mary’s emotions were almost uncontrolla- 
ble ; and who could listen unmoved to the voice 
of the lamentations which bewail the desolation ^ 
of Jerusalem, over which Jesus Christ wept; and i 
while one by one the lights are extinguished on the \ 
altar, and upon the triangle, testifying the grief 
and mourning excited by the terrible event about [ 
to take place ; and when, after the lessons and 
the Miserere is chanted, and the solitary voice ' 
breaks out like a wail of woe from a bereaved and 
broken heart, who can wonder that the sobs and ^ 
tears of the assembled thousands are mingled with 
it? and when the last light disappears from the 
triangle, that heart must be hard and indifferent, ^ 
which does not realize something of the desolation 
of those dreadful hours when Christ lay hidden in < 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


191 


the tomb. He is not to be envied who has no tear 
of sorrowful contrition and sympathy to shed at 
the foot of the cross on Good Friday, and no song 
of joy and exultation when the glorious Easter 
morning dawns over the earth. 



CHAPTER XV. 

Easteb was past, and the summer well advanced. 
Mrs. Maitland had grovm suddenly and rapidly 
worse, and her physician advised that she should 
visit some of the celebrated German springs. 
Lizzie had been for months past entirely engrossed 
by her mother’s illnesp, and she had seen but little 
of Mary, or Edward Lee. The latter had called 
often, but had usually met only Mr. Maitland. 
Lizzie from mingled motives had kept aloof ; she 
had begun to distrust her own heart, and was try- 
ing to practise the lesson of self-denial. She saw 
clearly that her Heavenly Father had appointed 
her no high or brilliant destiny ; she was called to 
a life of quiet and patient resignation; no great 
sacrifice was demanded, but she must serve him by 
fulfilling her daily duties in an unobtrusive and 
humble way. Quick, ardent, and generous, it 
would have been comparatively easy to have per- 


LIZZIE MAITLAI^D. 


193 


formed some arduous task — one demanding great 
personal sacrifice ; but there was all the more 
merit in submitting as she did. 

Lizzie sat alone in her little chamber one morn- 
ing, a few days previous to that appointed for their 
departure, when Mary Heyward entered. 

“ How pale and thoughtful you look,” said she, 
embracing her ; “ I have seen nothing of you for 
weeks, and I have missed your society more than 
I can tell you ; is any thing the matter with you, 
Lizzie ? You look ill, and almost unhappy ! ” 

“ My mother’s increasing illness,” Lizzie re- 
plied, and her eyes filled with tears — “ I can see 
by papa’s distressed and anxious countenance that 
he is very much alarmed.” 

“ Oh, I hope your mother’s illness is not as se- 
rious as you fear,” said Mary, trying to console 
her ; “ you must cheer up, and hope for the best. 
I have seen many invalids much more seriously 
afiected, recover entirely their health.” 

• “ God grant it may be so with my dear mother, 
but she has been so long declining, that I dread the 
worst ; if papa did not look so sad, I should feel 
more encouraged.” 

“ But, my dear Lizzie, you must recollect that 
your father is just as watchful and fearful as you 
are, and more ready to be influenced by fear than 
hope ; but if you look so unhappy, I shall not be 
able to tell you what I came to say, — that we are 
IV 


194 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


going to return to America immediately — ^my 
father has written to me to return, and I h^ve be- 
sides,” said Mary, blushing, “ a secret to tell you? 
which I could not communicate before, for the 
very good reason, that it was not all settled and 
decided. I have consented at last to be married, 
provided my father gives his consent, when I return 
home.” 

Lizzie turned deadly pale, Mary proceeded, 
and as she was herself laboring under embarrass- 
ment, she did not observe Lizzie’s agitation. 

“ I don’t believe that I am, as young ladies 
usually are, very, very much in love ; but I have a 
strong attachment, and think that it will at least 
afford me some security against my father’s ex- 
pected anger, when he shall learn the change in my 
religious belief — ^there can be no objection to the 
marriage in his eyes in a mere worldly point of 
view. As far as family and money matters are 
concerned, my father will find no objection ; and I 
rather fancy he will be glad to rid himself of the 
trouble of having a Catholic daughter to dispose 
of,” said Mary, laughing ; “ but why don’t you ex- 
press some surprise, or congratulate me, or do 
something or other ? I thought you would be re- 
joiced,” said Mary; “Mrs. EUicott has done no- 
thing but kiss me these two days.” 

“ I am not at all surprised,” said Lizzie ; “ for I 
have expected it for some time, and I do congratu- 
late you with all my heart.” 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


195 


“ Well, I am glad of that, and quite relieved, 
for I did not know but you might disapprove the 
course I am taking ; but I really hope that it will 
turn out for the best, and that I shall make a good 
Catholic of my husband yet.” 

Lizzie smUed a faint smile, at what she supposed 
Mary intended for a pleasantry, and yet she won- 
dered how she could speak with even a semblance 
of a jest, on such a subject. Lizzie shrunk at first, 
as Mary uttered these words, and the fear that she 
might suspect the state of her feelings, caused her 
the deepest mortification, and she felt inexpressibly 
relieved at what she supposed a httle gayety on the 
part of Mary. 

“ But see what an exquisite mosaic this is ; Mr. 
Lee presented it to me,” said Mary, handing her a 
beautiful brooch. Lizzie turned to the window to 
examine it, glad of a pretext to hide her face. 

“Do you know, Lizzie, that we have deter- 
mined to leave in a fortnight ? but I suppose you 
will be off before we are.” 

“ I think papa would be glad to set off the day 
after to-morrow, as the physician said no time was 
to be lost, and mamma always seems to be im- 
proved by travelling. I shall not be able to see 
you again, unless you can come here, Mary, for 
mamma is so nervous that I don’t like to be away 
from her but for a short time.” 

Tears swam in Lizzie’s eyes, and Mary kissed 


196 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


them away, and promised that she would come 
again, and offered her services to assist her friend 
in packing, or any other little kind office that she 
could perform. 

“ It is not necessary, Mary ; for Bridget is so 
careful, and always ready for an emergency ; she 
does every thing for mamma that kind and careful 
hands can do, and I think mamma regards her 
more as a dear friend than a servant ; and for 
myself and papa, we do not require much done for 
us, and I am not quite so helpless as you take me 
to he,” she said, smiling pleasantly. 

“ Mary, here is a little keepsake for you,” said 
Lizzie, taking from a drawer a case containing a 
set of pretty ornaments, “ and also an Agnus Dei, 
that the good sisters gave me, that you will wear, 
I am sure, for their sake, as well as mine, and it 
will serve to remind you of one who loved you 
dearly, when we are widely separated,” 

Mary pressed her hand affectionately, and as- 
sured her that there would be no need of keep- 
sakes to do that, that she was already associated 
with the most important events of her whole life. 

Mary stopped for a few moments at Mrs. Mait- 
land’s door to inquire after her health. She found 
her looking so much more feeble than she had an- 
ticipated, that she did not any longer wonder at 
Lizzie’s evident dejection, Mrs. Maitland was dis- 
inclined for conversation, and a few words of in- 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


197 


quiry, and kind remembrance for Mrs. Ellicott,*was 
all that passed between them. 

Mr. Maitland followed Lizzie and Mary from 
the room, and in answer to the inquiries of Mary, 
he told her that he intended to proceed by very 
easy stages, as Mrs. Maitland’s strength or fancy 
dictated. She appeared anxious to be moving, 
contrary to her usual habits. She seemed, with 
the restlessness of disease, to be desirous of change. 

Lizzie returned to her own apartment, and 
threw herself on the little couch, and sat with her 
face buried in her hands, where we must leave her, 
while she persists in thus misunderstanding Mary, 
to explain to whom she really was engaged. 

It w^as to Charles Ellicott instead of Edward 
Lee. Mary had given him her consent (after some 
scruples on account of the difference in religious 
faith), unless her father should interpose some ob- 
jections. It had been a sort of childish preference ; 
on the part of Charles Ellicott, very deep and 
strong ; and even the change in her religious senti- 
ments had made no sort of difference with him, and 
she' had some reason to hope that his objections 
would not prove insuperable, and that he might 
some day embrace Catholicity himself. 

Lizzie had been so confined with her mother of 
late, that she had known nothing of these matters 
— nor do w’^e very clearly understand about it, ex- 
cept that one day Charles had entered the room 
17 * 


198 


LIZZIE MAITLAJS'D. 


where Mary sat reading, and taking up some books, 
that were lying around, saw Edward Lee’s name 
written in nearly all of them — he turned them over 
rather pettishly, and said, in a tone half grieved, 
half angry, — 

“ I should really think that Mr. Lee imagines 
you to be some distressed damsel in the custody 
of cruel jailers, from the pains he takes to supply 
you with amusement, and seems to think you can 
have no enjoyments but those he provides. And 
you, Mary, have no eyes or ears for any body else. 
I have brought you some flowers, but as you will 
not condescend to look at them, and have so many 
of Mr. Lee’s, that I suj^pose I may take mine away, 
and myself with them, for that matter,” said he, 
turning away to leave the room. 

“Why, my dear cousin Charles,” said Mary, 
for by that pleasant title she always called him, 
when she wished to soften him, — “ pray excuse me 
for not laying aside my book. I was so much 
engrossed that I really did not observe your en- 
trance.” 

“ I dare say you did not, but if Mr. Lee had 
come instead, you would not have been quite so 
insensible to his presence.” 

“Noav, cousin Charles, come back,” said Mary, 
springing after him and laying her hand on his 
arm — “ now do come back and sit here beside me, 
and give me those beautiful flowers and she tried 


lJZ7.1Vi MAITLAND. 


199 


to snatch them away as he held them out of her 
reach — “ please give them to me, I want them to 
wear in my hair and to put in my own little room.” 

“ Do you really, Mary ? ” said he, softening and 
s looking fondly at her — “ do you indeed ! and will 
you wear my roses ? What will Mr. Lee say when 
he comes ? ” 

“ Mr. Lee has no right to say or think any 
[ think about it, and besides, he would not care ; they 
[ are beautiful and she put some of them in her 
j rich brown hair, and placed a delicate little cluster 
in her bosom. 

“ Oh, Mary, how happy you make me but I fear 
I you are not serious in what you say or do — ^that 
my roses will soon be slighted for Mr. Lee’s books ! ” 

“Well, dear Charles, that would be no slight 
to you, and no compliment to him, only an ac- 
knowledgment of the author’s power to chain the 
interest. 'Now come and sit beside me, and tell 
me why you have seemed of late so unUke your- 
self, and to dislike Mr. Lee’s society so very 
much ? ” 

“ Mary, you are cruel to ask me why — ^you know 
how I have always loved you, and you alone ; from 
my boyhood you have been the charm of my life. 
If I studied, it was to be distinguished for your 
sake. All that I did or thought of was for you ; 
and have I not been thrust aside and forgotten in 
every thing — every where has Mr. Lee started up 


200 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


before me, until I have been nearly maddened, and 
you, Mary, have been cruel.” 

“ I have been thoughtless, perhaps selfish, 
Charles, I admit,” said Mary, interrupting him, 
“ but not cruel. I have considered too much my 
own pleasure, and have been too regardless of the 
feelings and wishes of others. I was so happy in 
my newly found faith, and received so much in- 
struction and pleasure from Mr. Lee’s society, that 
I see I have been forgetful of your feelings some- 
times — pray forgive me, my dear cousin,” said she, 
giving him her hand, “ and let us be friends again.” 

“ Oh, Mary,” said he, seizing it and covering it 
with kisses — “ say you will forgive me my petu- 
lance and unkindness — if you knew how unhappy 
I have been, you would excuse it.” 

“ I do freely,” said she — “ and we will be as 
firm friends as ever.” 

“ Oh Mary ! may I not hope that we shall be 
nearer and dearer? Now do not say that you 
are a Catholic, and I am not — you shall be any 
thing you like. Say that you love me, that you 
will be my wife. Mary! dearest Mary! you are 
the only woman that I ever loved, or can love,” , 
and he threw his arms around her and embraced 
her. 

“ Then you are a naughty, ungrateful fellow, 
and I shall have to punish you and console your 
mother by giving her a daughter,” said Mary, blush- 


LIZZIE MAITLAOT). 


201 


ing deeply; and breaking away from him, she 
threw her arms around Mrs. Ellicott’s neck, who 
had entered the room unperceived by her son, and 
had heard his last remarks. 

“ And I will forgive him all his errors for the 
sake of such a daughter,” said Mrs. Ellicott, her 
eyes glistening with tears of joy, and kissing her 
so heartily, that Charles declared he was jealous 
already. 

Now, dear reader, we have told you all this non- 
sense because we could not help it — we feel foolish 
to be exposing our friends in such a way. And poor 
Mary of course felt still more embarrassed when 
she attempted to tell Lizzie, and when she was so 
cold and distrait, it was impossible to be more ex- 
plicit, especially as it had never entered her honest 
little head to imagine the odd fancies that pos- 
sessed Lizzie’s. She had taken it for granted, in her 
matter of fact way, that she understood, as well 
as herself, that it was Charles to whom she was en- 
gaged. 

After this long digression, we will return to 
Lizzie, who still sat with her face buried in her 
hands, when there was a gentle rap at the door, 
and Bridget entered with a bouquet of lovely 
flowers, accompanied by a note for her ; it proved 
to be from Edward Lee, begging her acceptance of 
the flowers, and asking an interview with her that 
evening. Lizzie’s face flushed crimson with mingled 


202 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


emotions when she saw the signature ; her first 
impulse was to press the flowers passionately to 
her lips, and to grant the interview, but in a few 
moments a deadly paleness overspread her counte- 
nance, and she reproached herself bitterly for the 
feebleness of her purpose. She crushed back the 
tears, and blushed and trembled as if he really 
had witnessed the emotion she had betrayed. 

“ Could he not seek an interview mthout any 
wrong to Mary?” She could have wept* at her 
own vanity that had made her for an instant dream 
of a renewal of his old tenderness ; the thought of 
what had once passed between them came like a 
flash upon her recollection, mingled with the con- 
sciousness of the feelings that had sprung up in 
her own breast since that time, in spite of all her 
efforts to subdue them, and now, when it is too 
late, and she had herself rejected the love he had 
offered, she awoke to a full appreciation of the af- 
fection she had slighted — a knowledge of her own 
heart, and the happiness she had thrown away — 
under such circumstances she dared not trust her- 
self to meet Edward Lee alone. She felt that any 
expression of his brotherly kindness would be too 
oppressive — and she distrusted h^r own firmness, 
and she shrank with anguish for the bare possibility 
of his suspecting the true nature of her sentiments 
towards him. 

“Perhaps,” she thought, “he wishes to an- 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


203 


nounce his engagement with Mary, he may think 
it is due to our friendship that he should inform me 
of it before we part. Oh ! I could not hear it 
from his own lips unmoved, and I cannot meet him 
alone ! ” She gave way to an uncontrollable burst 
of grief ; her tears rained down over the sweet fresh 
flowers, that sent up their odors like incense before 
the altars where her young heart’s afiections were 
sacrificed. She wept long and freely, and relieved 
her oppressed heart of its burden. Casting herself 
on her knees, she prayed fervently for herself — for 
Mary and Edward, that every blessing might rest 
upon them, and that she might be able to pursue a 
life o'* quiet and unrepining usefulness. 

She arose, and sitting down before her little 
escritoire, with all the calmness she could assume, 
she wrote to Edward, thanking him for the flowers, 
but with such a sisterly kindness — that he thought 
her cold, almost to cruelty — ^but at the same time 
declining to meet him, alleging the impossibility 
of leaving her mother, stating, what was to a cer- 
tain extent true, that she required her constant and 
undivided attention. 

Poor Edward never dreamed that the calm, 
cold note he held in his hand had cost her such an 
efibrt, and that it was the result of repeated trials ; 
upon the first, some blinding tears had fallen — ^in 
the second, an expression had escaped, that her 
jealous eye fancied might be a betrayal of the 
o^ntion that she strove to crush out of her heart. 


204 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


Edward Lee held the cold, “ cruel note,” as he 
thought it, in his hand for a moment, then crumpled 
it and dashed it away. “ Oh, Lizzie Maitland ! 
how I have misinterpreted you. You are cold, 
haughty and unkind — you that I thought so affec- 
tionate, and gentle, and loving. I have loved you 
almost to idolatry, and I am bitterly punished for 
this creature-worship. I love you still, I cannot 
tear your image from my heart at will. Ah, Lizzie, 
how have I failed to please ? I thought you so 
gentle and tender, I could freely have cast my 
heart’s best treasures at your feet, and trusted my 
happiness to your keeping. And have I loved you 
so long and so fondly to meet this cold return ? ” 
and he buried his face in his hands, and his frame 
shook with unaccoimtable emotion. 

If Lizzie could have seen it, it would have made 
her the happiest of women, and it would have 
spared her many a bitter heart-ache. 

Both Edward and Lizzie passed a sleepless 
night. The next day was spent by Lizzie in the 
bustle of preparation for departure. She saw Mary 
again, she came in company with Charles Ellicott 
and his mother. 

Mrs. Ellicott alluded distantly to Mary’s en- 
gagement, but nothing was said to invite further 
confidence or to undeceive Lizzie. Mrs. Maitland’s 
illness, and the contemplated journey were the ab- 
sorbing topics — with many regrets on both sides, 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


205 


V 

they bade adieu. She saw Edward for a few mo- 
ments in the presence of all her family — ^he was 
more distant than ever, he scarcely spoke to her, 
i, and she did not raise her eyes to his, lest he might 
read something in hers that she wished to conceal, 
— he thinking her cold and unnecessarily repulsive, 
did not approach her again. And so they parted, 
mutually deceived, with crushed and wounded 
affections, 

Edward had told Mr. Maitland that he should 
probably return immediately to the United States, 
but he had not quite decided. Lizzie had taken it 
for granted that he would accompany the ElUcotts, 
and had asked no questions, 




CHAPTER XVI. 

It was a dreary, cheerless night, near the end of 
November ; a cold norther howled dismally with- 
out, and the rain pattered against the casement, 
not in torrents, but with that uninterrupted and 
steady dropping, which seems to preclude all hope 
of its cessation ; the storm had continued through 
the day, and the streets of Xew Orleans were 
covered with a stiff black mud, and little pools of 
water stood on the side walks. As the night closed 
in, the clouds seemed to grow thicker and blacker, 
and at ten o’clock the streets were almost deserted ; 
the night proved so inclement, that none who were 
not urged by business, or some strong necessity, 
ventured from beneath the shelter of their homes. 

Dr. Singleton, for it was our old friend, had re- 
turned rather earlier than usual ; he had drawn his 
chair near the fire, and was about seating himself, 
when his servant, a well-made, good-natured look- 


lAZZm MAITLAND. 


207 


j ing negro fellow, entered the room, in answer to 
j the summons of the bell. 

i Here, Jake, tell Dinah to make my coffee, and 
! to send it to me hot and strong to-night, and be 
il quick about it.” 

1 “ She dun dun it, massa, and it’ll be ready for 
your perticklar use before many minnits — ^wouldn’t 
Massa J ohn like his newspaper dried dis yar damp 
night?” said Jake, unfolding the sheet, and care- 
fully holding it before the fire. 

“ Where are my slippers ? Confound the dog ! ” 
said the doctor, stumbling over a great shaggy 
setter, who had followed Jake into the apartment, 
and had, with an air of perfect security and free- 
dom, stretched himself out at full length on the 
rug, before the fire. 

“ Confound the dog ! what with the dogs and 
the negroes, they will not leave me a spot in my 
own house free from their encroachments, stretched 
out, all of them, in the most -comfortable places ! 
I’ll get married, by J ove ! I cannot stand this ! 
And there’s that black Dinah takes her own time for 
every thing. I’ll not get my coffee this hour, I 
dare say, and then, just as likely as not, it won’t be 
fit to drink — always serves me so. "No man ever 
was worse off in his own house — ^nothing fit to eat, 
or diink — give me that paper,” said the doctor, 
testily, “and be off quick, and bring me my 
coffee.” 


208 


LIZZIE MAITLAND, 


“Lord, massa, how can you say dat?” said 
Jake, with an injured air. “We don’t neber hab 
nuffen good in our kitchen widout sending massa 
some ob it. Dis yar nigger see to dat, hisself.” 

“ Some ob it ! ” growled the doctor, to hide a 
laugh at his impudence. “ You black rascal, be 
off quick, and bring me all of the coffee ; don’t 
bring me what is left^ this time. — ^But stop, you in- 
fernal scoundrel ! What are you doing with my 
best black coat on your back ? ” 

“ Lor’ massa,” said Jake, grinning with delight, 
for he had been strutting about more pompously 
than ever, to attract attention to his coat. “ Lor’ 
sakes, massa, ’taint yourn, but I order him from 
same tailor, and from same piece ob oloff, and to 
be made jest like yourn ; and h6?s dun dun it, he 
has ! ” grinning wider than ever. 

“ The devil you did ! and who is going to pay 
the biU ? ” said the doctor, with some curiosity. 

“It dun paid, ready sir. Why, Massa John 
don’t tink that one ob his niggers let a bill stand, 
and be dunned like a common, poor^ white man ; 
Massa John gib me plenty spendin’ money, and dis 
nigger gwine to stan’ bridesman for dem yaller 
ones ; and fur de honor ob de ’stablishment Massa 
John want his darkee look as fine as dem yaller 
niggers, wid dar gold watches, and white kids. 
Maybe Massa John got some white glubs, and 


LIZZIE MAITLAOT). 


209 


white cravats he don’t want hisself, that will do for 
J ake,” continued he, with an insinuating air. 

The doctor growled, and laughed behind his 
newspaper, called him a lazy, impudent dog, and 
ordered his coffee again ; and J ake knew that the 
white kids were his for the wedding night. 

But before he had quitted the apartment (for 
he had a fashion of making his master wait, under 
some pretence or other, until he had finished what- 
ever he was about, and until he had arranged mat- 
ters to suit himself ; but to do him justice, it must 
be confessed he always attended pretty carefully to 
the doctor’s comfort), there was a ring at the front 
door bell. 

“ Here, you Jake,” said his master, “ don’t ad- 
mit any body, or I’ll cane you.” 

“ Yes, massa — ^yes — I hear,” said he, trudging 
off with a gait peculiarly his own. 

Presently, after a little parley in the entry, Jake 
opened the door, and re-entering the apartment, 
slid up to his master with a coaxing sort of an ex- 
pression, began scratching his head, and roUing his 
eyes. 

“ Well ! what now ! ” said the doctor, impa- 
tiently ; “ didn’t I tell you not to let any body in ? 
I will see nobody to-night.” 

“ Yes, massa, yes — I know dat ; but dis yau is 
a handsome young woman, and dis child tink 
massa wont let her come for nuffin. I tho’t Massa 
18 * 


210 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


John didn’t know, and wouldn’t like it if dis nig- 
ger sent away de handsome young missus in de 
rain.” 

“ What business have you to think ? ” growled 
his master. 

“Nun in dis world ’bout myself, only ’bout 
Massa John,” said Jake, with a consequential air, 
that belied the humility of his words. 

When Dr. Singleton stepped to the door of the 
apartment, he saw a delicate-looking young woman, 
her face nearly concealed under a large hood, and 
she had evidently enveloped herself hastily in a 
rough cloak, for she was without the shelter of an 
umbrella ; in a voice tremulous from distress, she ; 
besought him to come quickly to see her child. 
He invited her to enter, and take a seat beside the 
fire ; she declined, in a manner that forbade all at- 
tempts on the part of the doctor, to press her fur- * 
ther. Requesting her to wait for a few moments, i 
to show him the way, he told her he would accom 
pany her immediately. 

“Bless me! it must be some urgent necessity : 
that has brought the poor thing from her home 
alone, on such a night as this,” said he to himselij ! 
as he put on his overcoat and shoes. “ Dear me, ^ 
what a night,” exclaimed he, again, as the wind al- j 
most bore his umbrella from his hand — “poor 
thing!” and the kind-hearted doctor tried to i 
shield the defenceless creature beside him, who, in , 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


211 


her restless impatience, put him to the top of his 
speed to keep pace with her. 

After about fifteen minutes’ walk, she turned 
down a long, narrow street, and proceeding rapidly, 
finally stopped before a house of moderate size, 
and entered. She ascended immediately the stair 
case, and ushered the doctor into a small, but com- 
fortable apartment. There were evidences of a 
refined and cultivated taste to be seen in the ar- 
rangement and appointment of the room. A few 
pictures embellished the walls, and on one side of 
the room was an etage, fiUed with choice books, as 
the doctor could discern by the light of the lamp, 
which was dimly burning ; its only occupants were 
a little negress, of ten or twelve years, and an in- 
fant in a cradle, whose feeble moans and labored 
breathing seemed to awaken the deepest sympathy 
in the breast of its little nurse — gently rocking the 
: cradle, she tried to soothe its meanings : 

“Dunna cry, honey — dunna cry; its mamma 
come back soon.” 

“ My precious darling ! ” said the mother, cast- 
ing aside, as she spoke, her damp garments, and 
; going hastily up to the cradle, held the light for 
the doctor. 

The little sufferer seemed to recognize her 
voice, and stretched out his arms, but again con- 
tinued the restless movement of its head from side 
to side, seeming to indicate that the distress was 
there. 


212 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


“ Oh, doctor,” said she, raising her eyes im- 
ploringly to his face, “ is there any hope for my 
child?” As she turned towards him, he recog- 
nized in her pale and faded countenance, Fanny 
Maitland, whom he had known some three years 
before. 

“ I will not deceive you, madam,” he replied ; 
“ the case is a very doubtful one, beyond the reach 
of human aid, I fear. Calm yourself, my dear 
madam, and we will hope for the best — ^if I could 
have seen him sooner, there might have been room 
for hope,” continued he, to himself, as she sunk on 
her knees beside the cradle, and clasping her hands, 
bent over her infant, and gazed in his pale face, 
with an expression of anguish and desolation that 
it, was piteous to behold, as if every hope — all the 
treasures of her soul, were centred in the little 
creature before her, the slender thread of whose 
existence seemed about to be severed. 

“ Oh, my child ! my pretty one ! Must he die, 
and will there not be left one^ in all this wide city, 
to love me, to console me ! ” the thought seemed 
to overwhelm her, and she burst into a passion of 
tears, the first she had shed for many a weary 
hour. 

The kind doctor knew very well that nature is 
the best physician, and that her tears would relieve 
her burdened heart. 

At this moment her ear seemed to catch the 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


218 


sound of approaching footsteps, and springing to 
her feet, she exclaimed, “ He is coming. Nanny,” 
said she to the little attendant, “ you may go to 
bed ; I shall not need you any more to-night ; ” 
and the child, as the footsteps drew nearer, cast a 
frightened glance towards the door, and seemed 
glad to make her escape. As she crept away into 
a little closet adjoining the room, the door opened, 
and a young man of bloated appearance, and evi- 
dently deeply intoxicated, entered. 

“ Oh, ho ! ” said he, with a drunken leer at the 
doctor’s hat, whom he did not yet perceive, owing 
to the dimness of the light. “ Whom have we 
here ? Company — didn’t expect me so soon. Eh ! 
madam ? ” 

“ Henry dear, it is Dr. Singleton ; you have 
not forgotten, surely,” said she, going up to him ; 
“ he has come to see our child ; our poor little 
Willie is very ill — do not disturb him.” 

“ Come to see our child’s mother, more likely,” 
and with a brutal epithet he raised his hand, as if 
he were going to strike her. 

“ Hold ! wretched young man ! ” said Dr. Sin- 
gleton, in a stern voice, stepping forward, “ would 
you strike your wife over the pillow of your dying 
child ? ” 

The manner of the doctor seemed to make an 
impression; he seized the light, and going up to 
the cradle, beside which his wife was again kneel- 


214 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


ing — with unsteady and trembling hands held it 
over the face of the dying infant. With aU his 
guilt and wretchedness, he was not yet so wholly 
a brute, as to be insensible to the sufferings of his 
child. 

“ Henry,” said she, looking up despairingly, 
“ Dr. Singleton says there is no hope for him ; he 
must die ! ” and she sank with a groan, nearly in- 
sensible upon the floor. . 

Dr. Singleton hastened to her assistance ; 
Henry was now fully awake to the reality of the 
scene, and seemed to become sober in a moment ; 
he retreated to a chair, and sinking down into it, 
covered his face with his hands, and sobbed aloud. 
Such inconsistent beings are we ! 

He, whose song had been loudest in the revel, 
whose profane and impious jests had most fre- 
quently awakened the mirth and apj)lause of his 
vicious companions, from whom he was recently 
parted, and whose hand, but now, was raised against 
the patient being, who, for his sake, had endured 
so much — had not yet wholly stifled the whisper- 
ings of conscience, or hushed the holy voice of 
nature within his breast. Even this young man, 
so lost to all sense of self-respect — so wretched as 
to have steeled his heart against all the considera- 
tions that should have made him the protector, in- 
stead of the destroyer of his young wife and child, 
— even he could be touched by the feeble wail of 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


216 


an infant, and weep like a woman over its suffer- 
ings — so powerful are the appeals of nature. 

At this moment the child seemed to arouse from 
its stupor, and to recognize the beloved being who 
bent over him — ^he stretched out his hands, clutched 
her fingers within his grasp, and for a few moments 
! his breathing was relieved. 

“ Oh, doctor,” said the anxious mother, “ see 
how intelligent he looks ; may I not hope this is a 
: favorable change ? Oh, say there is hope for me.” 

The doctor shook his head sadly, for weU he 
I knew, that what she saw was but a gleam of the 
celestial light, already kindled in the soul of the 
dying child. 

“ Doctor, you are cruel not to let me cling to 
this one, poor comfort.” He looked grieved and 
distressed, and shrank from saying that death was, 
even now, upon him. The disease was one of those 
quick, congestive fevers, for which there is 
! scarcely a hope, unless remedies are administered 
at the very first stages — for a short time the child 
continued in this state, and in spite of the doctor’s 
j reluctance to give her any room for hope, the poor 
! mother could not but flatter herself that she, who 
j knew him best, must be less likely to be mistaken 
than a stranger ; but again all was changed, his 
i labored breathings, and the agonized motion of the 
I head returned, and aU hope was gone. Suddenly 


216 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


he opened his eyes, one look of intelligence and 
love gleamed on his little face — he clutched her 
fingers tighter — his eyes closed, and his spirit had 
returned to God who gave it, and the heart-stricken 
mother was childless. 





CHAPTER XVII. 

We must introduce our readers into the interior 
of an elegant, substantial house, in the city of New 
York, the. abode of the rich Mr, Heyward. It is 
Sunday morning, the church bells announced that 
the hour for the commencement of the services had 
arrived ; a very handsome carriage was drawn up 
before the door — the sleek, shining black horses, 
and their equally sleek, demure-looking driver, the 
spotless neatness of the carriage and harness, all 
gave token of the love of order and precision that 
ruled within the household ; there was not a speck 
or spot to be seen, even the silver mounting of the 
whip handle was scrupulously bright. Mr. Hey- 
ward never gave orders twice on the same subject, 
any disregard would have involved dismissal from 
his service — ^he was prompt, stern, and decided, 
and prided himself upon never changing his opin- 
ions on any subject. An elderly lady and gentle- 


218 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


man were waiting in the drawing-room ; he ap- 
peared to be growing somewhat impatient. At 
length he rose, and walked up and down the room, 
twice, just twice each way ; then rang the beU in 
the decisive manner of a person accustomed to 
prompt obedience, and ordered the servant to in- 
form Miss Heyward that her father awaited her. 
The man bowed obsequiously, and retired. In a 
few moments a slight rustle, and a light footstep, 
proclaimed the entrance of our young friend Mary. 
She was paler than usual, and there was some 
trepidation perceptible in her manner, that indi- 
cated an apprehension that a storm was about 
to burst over her head; but the slight com- 
pression about the mouth told as plainly^ of her 
resolve to be ready and meet it, when it should 
come. 

“ My daughter,” said Mr. Heyward, “ your 
mother and I have been waiting for you for some 
time ; your habits of punctuality have not improved 
by your foreign tour.” 

“ My dear father, I am sorry that you have 
waited for me, I do not intend to go with you to 
church to-day. I have already attended service 
this morning in my own church.” ’ 

“ In your own church ! ” said Mr. Heyward, re- 
peating her words slowly, and with an air of angry 
astonishment, for that there could be any difference 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


219 


of opinion on that subject in his own house, was a 
matter of profound surprise to him. 

“ Will you have the goodness to explain your- 
self, Mary, what it is you mean by your own 
I church ? ” 

“ My dear father, I would like to explain my- 
self more fully if you will allow me to do so at 
another time,” said Mary, the color in her cheeks 
changing rapidly. 

“ I insist upon an explanation this moment,” 
said Mr. Heyward, in a severe voice. “ Why can 
! you not accompany your mother and myself to 
; church ? nothing will prevent you from doing so, I 
i presume, if you are well enough to leave the 
house ? ” 

“Father,” said Mary, in as firm a voice as 
i she could command, “ I ought to have informed 
; you before, that my conscience will not allow 
J me to accompany you ; I am no longer a Protes- 
tant ! ” 

Mary did not raise her eyes to her father’s face 
to see the awful frown that was darkening his whole 
countenance, she stood stiU and quiet before hun. 
while the silence lasted. Although one could see, 
, almost hear the beating of her heart, she knew it 
* was the calm that precedes the tornado. Who 
has not at some moment of his existence ex- 
i perienced this sensation of awe- — ^the stillness 
I and stagnation, as it were, of all things in na- 


220 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


ture, and the heavy, oppressive atmosphere before 
the desolating storm bursts in its fury over his 
head? 

“ Did I understand you ? ’’ said he at length, in 
a cold, determined, iron tone^ that Mary from ex- 
perience knew expressed all that low muttered 
thunder can convey — “repeat it^to me again, I 
must have been deceived — I think no child of mine 
would dare to utter what I understood you to say 
just now.” 

“ My dear father,” said Mary, in a gentle but 
firm voice, “ I do repeat, that I am no longer a 
Protestant. I have been baptized and received 
into the Catholic Church, and I entreat that you 
will not be offended with me for the step I have 
taken without your consent ; it was the struggle in 
my own mind between my conviction of right and 
my fear of displeasing you, that caused my illness 
before I left home. Oh, hear me, my father ! hear 
what I have to say — I listened to the lectures at 
your positive command, against the Catholic re- 
ligion, and I felt them to be unjust from their ex- 
treme violence. I read, searched, and examined, 
and I found them to be untrue ; blind, and bewil- 
dered, I groped in the darkness of error. I strug- 
gled and resisted — ^for y(ywr sake, my father — ^my 
convictions; when the light had dawned upon 
my soul — yes, even after I was satisfied that the 
Church so vilified was the only one established by 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


221 


I Christ : but notwithstanding my cowardice, God 
did not take his grace away from me. I wept and 
i prayed until I was stretched helpless upon a bed of 
i sickness ; I made a solemn vow, that if my life was 
spared, that if the light of truth was made clear 
to my understanding, then so torn with doubts and 
fears, that I would embrace it wherever it might 
lead me. And when, like St. Paul, the scales 
dropped from my eyes, and I saw clearly the holi- 
1 ness and beauty of the Catholic Church, I obeyed 
the will of my Heavenly Father, and submit- 
1 ted to his guidance; and I have felt his power 
to sustain, to comfort, and to save my soul from 
death.” 

j “ Silence ! ” said Mr. Heyward in a voice of 
thunder — “I command you to be silent. Go to 
i your room instantly, and make yourself ready to 
accompany me to church ! ” 

“ Father,” said Mary, “I am not able to obey 
I you from bodily weakness, and my convictions of 

I truth will not allow me ever again voluntarily to 
visit a Protestant place of worship ; and you surely 
would not feel your authority honored by a com- 
pulsory obedience in a case like this. You taught 
me to think it right to reason and act from my own 
|| convictions of duty,' and I appeal to you, whether 

I your sense of justice as a man^ shall be lost in your 
authority as a father f If you compel me, I will 
accompany you ; but it wiU be the forced obedience 


222 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


of a slave, not the loving, dutiful act of a Christian 
daughter, for I repeat again, that I am, heart and 
soul, a Catholic, and am ready, if God demands, 
to lay down my life for my faith ! ” 

For one moment he hesitated. 

“ Go to your room. Miss Heyward, and do not 
leave it on any pretence, without my permission. 
I forbid you to hold intercourse with any person or 
persons outside of this house, and especially with the 
Ellicotts, for the deception they have practised to- 
wards me, I forbid you in any manner having com- 
munication with them. Come, madam, we shall be 
late to church,” said he, turning to his wife, who, 
pale and trembling, stood like a culprit, not daring 
to disobey him, though all the mother’s feelings rose 
up within her when she saw her child standing, 
white as a statue, while she listened to the angry 
words of her father. Mr. Heyward entered the 
carriage with his wife, and they drove from the 
door. For ten years Mr. Heyward had not once 
been late or absent from church. 

Mary, sick and giddy, reached her own room, 
she scarcely knew how. She cast herself upon her 
knees, and besought her Heavenly Father not to 
leave or forsake her ; she had his promise, and she 
felt firm and strong in the belief of his tender love 
and power to comfort and sustain. As she rose the 
faintness returned, and she found her handkerchief 


LIZZIE MAITIiAND. 


223 


that she had pressed to her lips stained with blood. 
She did not faint or scream ; she threw herself on 
the bed, and awaited in patience the return of an 
old family servant whom she knew that she could 
trust. 




CHAPTER XVIII. 


“’Tis one thing to be tempted, 

Another thing to fall.”— S hakspeake. 


The city clocks had just struck the hour of ten ; a 
pale, delicate-looking woman rose from a low couch, 
and starting towards the window, stood in a listen- 
ing attitude, as the sound of footsteps drew near. 
She was young and very pretty, and her dress of 
deep mourning gave an additional shade of pale- 
ness to her countenance, which wore an expression 
of touching sadness, though rather that of wearing, 
living trouble, than of settled grief for some dear 
departed one — ^there was an anxious, startled and 
troubled look, that seemed watchful for some new 
fear of sorrow. She started and bent forward, and 
her face flushed as each sound approached, and 
when it passed and died away in the distance, she 
seemed half disappointed, half relieved. 

At length a rapid footfall was heard approach- 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


225 


ing and ascending the steps, and the eager watcher 
darted to the door and opened it. “ I thought it 
was Henry,” she said in a half surprised tone, as 
she perceived Mr. Morgan, her husband’s former 
partner. 

“ I hope I am not an unwelcome visitor,” 
he said, fixing on her an admiring gaze, which 
Fanny did not seem to observe; he held out his 
hand as he spoke, she shook hands with him, though 
in a listless and abstracted mannhr, as if her 
thoughts were wandering far away — he retained 
her hand, and led her gently towards a seat. 

“ N ever unwelcome, Mr. Morgan, my only friend, 
I may say, in this wide city ; but I thought Henry 
would have been here before this hour,” she said, 
hesitating and coloring. 

“ I fear you will be disappointed, my poor girl,” 
he replied, in a soothing and tender manner ; 
“ Henry is with his companions to-night, he is in- 
sensible to the treasure he possesses here, and is 
recklessly determined to destroy himself, and her 
peace of mind.” 

Fanny burst in tears — she did not resent his 
words, for she thought them dictated by mistaken 
kindness for herself. She was well aware that Mr. 
Morgan had endured much from Henry ; he had 
utterly neglected his business, and had drawn on 
the firm with such reckless improvidence, that she 
was hardly surprised at the censure his words im- 
19 * 


226 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


plied. She was aware that an execution hung 
over the house, and was only stayed by Mr. Mor- 
gan’s forbearance and kindness ; he had frequently 
visited them of late, and Ifanny regarded him as 
almost the only friend she had in the city. She 
had not written for a long jiime to her uncle’s 
family — shame and pride had prevented — she had 
reaped already such bitter fruits from her perverse- 
ness, and she almost rejoiced that they could not 
know all she endured. 

Fanny continued to weep. “ Poor child,” said 
he, compassionately pressing the soft little hand he 
held in his own, and drawing nearer to her — “ con- 
fide in me, treat me as a father and your dearest 
fiiend — am — I ever will be — I would share my 
fortune, and lay down my life for you.” Fanny 
wept on as if she did not hear or heed his words. 

“Fanny dearest,” said he, throwing his arm 
around her and attempting to draw her to him — 
“ you must hear now what I have long desired to 
say to you. I love yoq madly, and you must re- 
turn my love! fly with me to some distant land 
from the husband who is unworthy, and the ties 
that must be hateful to you ! ” 

Fanny broke from him with a wild cry of terror, 
and stood with uplifted hands, like one suddenly 
bereft of reason. She uttered not a word, but 
gazed into his face with such an expression of mute 
anguish as might have moved a heart of stone. 


LIZZIE MAITLAISTD. 


227 


“Listen to me, Fanny — love you!” he repeat- 
ed ; “ fly with me from beggary and ruin. Your hus- 
band is bankrupt and a sot. I love you to mad- 
ness— you have no one to protect you, you must, 
you shall be mine ! ” and he again attempted to 
seize her. 

“ Stand back ! ” said she in a voice so changed, 
so unnatural, and a look so unearthly, that he in- 
voluntarily paused. 

“ What have you ever seen in me that you dare 
to breathe such insult in my ears ? You are cruel 
and unfeeling. I trusted you when my crushed 
and lonely heart needed consolation and support, and 
you have wronged my innocent confidence with 
this brutal return — and now I despise you ! I loathe 
you ! I would perish of want and starvation ere I 
would accept aid from your cruel hands. Begone 
from my sight — ^leave me, or I will brand you as 
the villain you are ! ” a dark shade of anger passed 
over his face. 

“ You will not — you dare not ! ” said he with a 
cold, malicious sneer. “I would blast your fair 
name — you have no one to protect you! Who 
would believe you, when I proclaimed it a plot of 
a worthless debauchee and his pretty wife to obtain 
money from the rich and honorable Mr. Morgan ? 
You shall repent this bitterly, unless you retract 
the words you have just spoken. Madam,” said he, 
rising and standing before her — “ I will crush you 


228 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


both to-morrow; you will feel the force of my 
words, you will be houseless and homeless. But it is 
not yet too late,” said he, again resuming the bland 
and tender manner that was even more odious than 
his anger and violence ; “ retract the words you have 
just spoken, leave your worthless husband, and this 
disgrace and ruin, and I will give you a home 
worthy of you. Will you reject all this and my 
love, for the sake of a man who has shown how 
little regard he has for you, and has thrown your 
aifection aside like an idle bauble, and deserted you 
to spend his days and nights in revelry and de- 
bauchery ? ” and he again attempted to approach 
her. 

“ Stand back ! come not a step nearer ! there is 
pollution in the very atmosphere while you re- 
main ! ” and she drew herself up, and her clear, dark 
eyes seemed to search his soul as they flashed forth 
the scorn and indignation she felt. “I despise 
alike your flattery and your threats ; I am not so 
defenceless as you deejn me, the God of the inno- 
cent will shield me ! Go, return to your own wife 
and helpless httle ones, and I will pray that God 
may not visit on the head of your own young 
daughter the wrongs you have attempted to inflict 
on one already bowed to the earth by sufiering 
and sorrow ! ” 

Fanny turned and left the room without another 
word. She reached her own apartment, and sank 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


229 


on her knees — she buried her face in her hands, 
and her bosom throbbed and her cheek was crim- 
son, as she dwelt on the bitter humiliation through 
which she had just passed; every feeling of her 
soul was outraged. Carefully nurtured by her 
imcle and aunt, and educated in great seclusion, such 
villany was unknown to her except in romances. 
Pride and self-conceit had been her besetting 
sins — and now, as she sank on her knees, her cheeks 
still burning with the recollection of the recent in- 
sult (degradation she felt it), the remembrance of 
all the tender counsels and warnings of her uncle 
and aunt flashed across her mind, and gave poig- 
nancy to her sufferings. Her self-will and pride 
stood out before her, as they had never done be- 
fore, and bitter tears and sighs went up from a 
humbled and penitent heart, that night, before the 
throne of Almighty God. But thanks be to his holy 
name, that the majesty of high heaven is merged 
in the tenderness of the father before the wail of 
woe and contrition from the humblest of his crea- 
tures on earth. 






CHAPTER XIX. 


“ O could’st thou but know, * - 
With what a deep devotedness of woe, 

I wept his absence o’er and o’er again, 

Thinking of him, still him till thought grew pain ; 

Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home, 

My eyes still turned the way he was to come, 

And all the long night of hope and fear, 

His voice and step still sounding in my ear ; 

Oh ! God — thou woulds’t not wonder that at last. 

When every hope was at once o’ercast, _ , 

This wretched brain gave way.” Mooee. 


Xearly a year elapsed, and Dr. Singleton could 
hear nothing from the Sumners ; he had inquired 
at the old lodgings, but they had removed, and 
although in his many long walks through the city 


he continued to seek them, he did not succeed in 


ascertaining their abode. One day, as he was re- ' 
turning from visiting some patients in the suburbs 
of the city, he was accosted hastily by a person 
who besought him to come to a house near by to 
see a young man who had jumped from a window 
in a fit of delirium, and who, the messenger said, 



LIZZIE MAITLAJJD. 


231 


might be dead, for aught he knew, before they 
could reach the house. 

A short walk brought them to a dilapidated- 
looking building in a miserable locality. The 
doctor was ushered into a small apartment, filled 
by a crowd of people who had been drawn thither 
by curiosity, to gaze on the form of the sufferer. 
Every thing in the room betokened poverty. Even 
the extreme cleanliness could not conceal this from 
the doctor’s practised eye. The air was close and 
stifling, and the presence of the idlers who had 
collected around the bed of the miserable man did 
not render the aspect of things any more comfort- 
able. One, more humane than the rest, was assist- 
ing the miserable wife to chafe and bathe his 
temples and limbs to endeavor to restore animation. 
Those nearest to the unfortunate object of their 
curiosity, were idly gazing on the purple and 
ghastly countenance ; those behind were elbowing 
and struggling to obtain a better view. On the 
countenances of all, capable of any expression, was 
depicted curiosity, — sympathy on none. There was 
a buzz and murmur of voices — some told how 
they had seen him fall — another, that he had assist- 
ed to take him up, but not one gentle voice was 
there, in all that throng, to speak words of sympa- 
thy, or breathe consolation into the ear of that 
most heart-stricken wife. How could they ? stupid, 
ignorant, wretched, and the most of them vicious. 


232 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


What could they know of the gentle movings of 
pity, or how find voice to express it ? They were 
outcasts themselves. Few of them, even in the 
tender hours of childhood, had ever known a happy 
home — from the earliest years of infancy the warm 
rich tide of affection had been checked and re- 
pulsed ; and no%o they stood in manhood, hardened, 
stupid, vicious, more the objects of pity than scorn. 

When Dr. Singleton had cleared the room, 
he approached the bed, and recognized in the af- 
flicted woman, Fanny Sumner, and the sufferer, 
her husband — he was still alive, but the heavy, 
hoarse breathing, the blackened appearance of the 
countenance, and the rattling sound in the throat, 
proclaimed that in a few moments all would be 
over. He saw at a glance that human aid was of 
no avail — ^he attempted something for his relief, to 
satisfy the heart-broken wife — ^but it was too late. 
The wounded man raised his arm with a convulsive 
twitch, drew his breath shorter, and ceased to 
breathe again. Poor Fanny laid her hand on his 
cold forehead, uttered a deep groan, and fell insen- 
sible on the dead body of her husband. 

For long weeks she lay in the tossings and de- 
lirium of brain fever, and when she at last awoke 
to consciousness, she was too weak to give utter- 
ance to the amazement that possessed her. She 
saw long rows of clean white beds, each with an 
occupant, and flitting here and there noiseless 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


233 


figures were ministering to the wants of all— but 
beside her own little couch sat a silent form, clothed 
in black, bending on her deep blue eyes, with a 
heavenly expression — it seemed so dear, and so 
familiar, and yet all unknown, that her wonder 
was increased. She gazed long and earnestly, with 
a searching and inquiring look, and then, as if the 
etfort had been too much for her poor weakened 
brain, she closed her eyes with the sweet assurance 
that her guardian angel had come to watch beside 
her, and fell into a profound slumber, which lasted 
several hours. 

“ The crisis is past, she will awaken perfectly 
rational, but you must prevent any agitation or ex- 
ertion,” said a low voice beside her couch, and the 
murmur sounded in her ears almost like the con- 
tinuation of a dream. 

“God be praised for all his mercies,” said 
another low", musical voice, that rang out so like 
the echo of earlier and happier days, that Fanny 
lay wdthout oiiening her eyes or moving, lest the 
delicious spell should be broken, and that low, 
sweet voice, and those gentle, tender eyes should 
melt away like a vision. She lay still and listened 
for another tone of the voice, but none came, though 
she could hear the faint rustle of the garments ; at 
length she could endure the suspense no longer, 
and opening her eyes, they met the same tender 
gaze fixed upon her face. 


234 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


“ Tell me who you are ? Am I still dreaming ? 
Where am I ? Who are you, that the sight of you 
brings back such a flood or sweet memories over 
my soul ? Are you an angel ? ” 

“ I am Sister Mary Agatha, a humble Sister of 
Charity and no angel — ^but I come to console you, 
my poor sufiering sister.’’ 

“ Sister Mary Agatha ! ” Fanny said slowly, as 
if striving to recall some idea she was too weak 
and ill to manage. “ She was a Sister of Charity ! 
but she was an angel ! ” she murmured — “ our dear 
Aunt Agnes ! ” 

“ You must not fatigue yourself, my dear child,” 
said Sister Mary Agatha, bending over her — “ you 
must remain quiet for a while ; I will watch over 
you while you sleep again.” 

“ But I dare not go to sleep for fear you will 
leave me,” she whispered drowsily. 

“ See I will hold your hand,” said Sister Mary 
Agatha, seating herself close beside her couch, and 
taking up a book she began reading her office. 

Fanny slept again, — a long, sweet slumber, and 
when she awoke it was far into the night — a dim 
lamp shed a pale light through the silent apartment. 
Sister Mary Agatha was gone, but other attend- 
ants were there, and all was so still and solemn 
that it might have been the habitation of the dead, 
the silence was so profound. She awoke to a full 
consciousness of her situation — she knew that she 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


235 


was in the hospital under the care of the Sisters 
of Charity, and a sense of peace and security came 
with the perception. She could discern by the 
dim light the outline of a picture of the cruci- 
fixion hanging at the foot of her little couch, and 
the sight of her suffering Redeemer made her able 
to endure the tide of recollection that swept like 
billows over her soul, as she lay through the long 
watches of the silent night. She longed for the 
return of day that the sweet Sister might come 
again. 

“Could it be shef dear Aunt Agnes It 
thrilled her lonely heart with joy. The bare pos- 
sibihty was almost too much of happiness for her 
weakened frame to endure. 

Morning came at last, and when Sister Mary 
Agatha bent over the little couch to inquire after 
her patient, she felt herself clasped about the 
neck, and a flood of tears was raining over Fanny’s 
pale cheeks, while amid her sobs and tears she 
murmured, “ dear, dear Aunt Agnes !” 

“Lizziej Lizzie! child of my tender love, is it 
indeed you ? And how have you suffered so much ? 
How came you here ? ” said Aunt Agnes (for it was 
indeed she). “How came you here, and where 
are your parents ? ” repeated she, a deadly paleness 
overspreading her countenance. 

“ No, no — ^it is Fanny, not Lizzie,” said she, still 
clinging to her. 


236 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


“Po not agitate yourself thus, my child, but 
tell me when you are able. You uttered in your 
delirium names that rang on my ears and made me 
long to know who you were^ I came here only a 
short time ago, since you were received into the 
hospital, and I shrank from questioning the doctor, 
a stranger, in regard to your history, when I found 
myself so much interested.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Fanny, coloring violently, “ you 
feared there might be a stain of sin and shame upon 
my brow, and you dreaded to hear it from the lips 
of a stranger — dear, dear, Aunt Agnes, I have been 
headstrong and wilful, and God has seen fit in 
mercy to punish and humble me for it, but there 
is no sin of a darker die.” 

And Fanny related her marriage — her uncle’s 
disapprobation — his reluctant consent on account 
of Henry’s unstable character and his want of re- 
ligious faith ; it was a painful task to expose the 
errors of one who had been so dear. 

“ I had not been long married,” she said, “ when 
I discovered his inclination for the society of gay 
and dissipated men ; he was social in his disposition, 
gay, witty, and agreeable, and I felt the danger he 
was in. I often besought him, with tears, to break 
from the associations that I knew must be the ruin 
of him ; sometimes my entreaties seemed to in- 
fluence him, and for weeks he would refrain from 
going into company; but again the fatal fascina- 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


237 


tion would return, and I found that he frequented 
the gaming table. Many, many nights have I 
watched, and counted hour after hour, as the time 
crept on, and the gray dawn would streak the east, 
before his return. I have watched beside my case- 
ment, and started at every footstep, until I was 
ready to sink from exhaustion and disappointment, 
as it passed onward. Ah, none but those who have 
experienced it, know the bitterness of those lonely 
midnight watches, and yet, when he returned, al- 
though, perhaps, half stupefied, and reeking with 
the fumes of liquor, yet I could not but feel de- 
lighted at the sound of his well-known footsteps. 

“ For some time he seemed to love me with un- 
diminished ardor, and with tears even, would ac- 
knowledge his errors, and promise amendment ; 
yet, after a while, I could perceive that his love was 
estranged from me — oh God ! the bitterness of that 
hour will never pass from my remembrance.” 

Fanny paused, and shuddered. “Yet then^ he 
was not unkind or harsh to me. After the birth 
of my child, for a while I was happy in the posses- 
sion of this new treasure, and fondly hoped that 
my husband had now an object that would reclaim 
his love, and make his home dear to him ; but I was 
doomed to see this hope fade slowly away, for I 
clung to it until the certainty of disappointment 
was thrust upon me ; but I found that, although 
one fount of love had failed me, there had sprung 


238 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


up another in my heart, so deep, that it could never 
run to waste. My husband became more and 
more estranged from home“; sometimes he would 
absent himself for several days, and his habits be- 
came so intemperate^ that it seriously affected his 
business ; but all this while, I was not utterly 
wretched, hope still supported me, and I had my 
blessed child to console me. I do not believe a 
mother can be utterly cast down, while her children 
are spared to her. After all my trouble, when I 
took my child in my arms, however I might trem- 
ble for the future, still the present gave me happi- 
ness which I had never experienced from any other 
source, and over my sleeping babe I offered prayers 
for my wandering husband. One night — it was 
the bitterest of my life — Henry had promised to 
return early. I watched his coming, and kept little 
Willie awake to greet him with his smiles. I thought 
his dear caresses must win a smile of love in return, 
he was such an angel of loveliness, but he came not. 
I grew weary and heart-sick — ^my child at length 
lost his playfulness, and his little head dropped 
upon my bosom, and I was forced, though reluc- 
tantly, to put him in his cradle. 

“ The weary, lonely hours dragged on ; still his 
father came not. I watched every footstep and 
counted the hours till day dawned at last. I tried 
in vain to sleep — I could do nothing — I was miser- 
able, frantic, desperate. I saw ruin for myself and 


LIZZIE MAITLAND, 


239 


my child before me, and when at last my husband re- 
turned, I reproached him bitterly with his errors 
and as the cause of all my misery ; he had taken 
enough to make him savage — he told me to begone 
if I was not satisfied, to return to my friends, 
that he no longer loved me, that he had married 
me more out of opposition to my uncle than for 
any real aflfection for me. 

“ I rose and staggered forward, and cast my- 
self at his feet, and besought him to retract those 
dreadful words. ‘Oh Henry!’ I implored, in my 
agony, clinging to him — ‘oh say that you were 
mad with liquor, that you knew not what you 
uttered ! ’ 

“ ‘ I will not ! ’ he shouted — ‘ do you dare to ac- 
cuse me, miserable woman ? I loathe the sight of you ! 
j I love another ! ’ and he struck me to the floor. 

“ How long I lay insensible I know not. I was 
roused at last by the cries of my child ; my husband 
had left the house. That night gave the death- 
blow to my hopes of any reformation in him I had 
loved so engrossingly as to make me forget all the 
dutiful affection I owed my uncle and aunt. I 
should have died but for the love I bore my child ; 
that was the spring of my existence, as a fountain 
of gushing water in the desert, to my desolate 
heart. 

“ Our furniture, the best of it, was disposed of 
to pay the house-rent — ^it was the gift of my uncle, 


240 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


and many bitter tears I shed when obliged to part 
with it. We removed to a cheaper residence; I 
toiled early and late, and gave a few music lessons, 
and thus procured many little luxuries for my hus- 
band and child, which I could not otherwise have 
obtained for them. 

“ There was very little amelioration in my con- 
dition; for about a year things continued much 
the same. My husband’s partner came sometimes 
to visit us, and exercised a great deal of forbear- 
ance towards him, or we should have been left des- 
titute long before. I thought it all from a motive 
of kindness and goodness,” said Fanny, sighing. 

“ Henry’s habits did not mend, and although I 
never made any allusion to the dreadful scene that 
had passed between us, I never could forget it. 

“ One cold, stormy day, I thought my dear lit- 
tle Willie appeared restless and unwell. I watched 
him with the most intense anxiety. He seemed to 
get better again, until, as evening advanced, the 
restlessness increased, and that heavy breathing 
alarmed me. I entreated my husband not to leave 
me alone, with my sick child ; and when he per- 
sisted in going, I begged him to send me a phy- 
sician. He said something about my ‘ always fancy- 
ing there was something the matter with the child, 
he would be well enough if I did not spoil him.’ I 
burst into tears as he left the house, for I felt such 
a sense of woe and desolation, that I could not re- 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


241 


strain them. I would have sent immediately for a 
physician, but it stormed so piteously that I did 
not like to send the little girl, the only messenger 
I had ; hut at length the child grew so much worse, 
and its* symptoms were so unmistakable, that I 
resolved to brave every thing, and go for one my- 
self ; I went for Dr. Singleton — ^but oh ! he could 
not save him — my precious Willie died ! ” Poor 
Fanny’s tears and sobs choked her utterance. 

Sister Mary Agatha allowed her to weep — she 
knew it was the best medicine for her poor, crushed 
heart. 

“ Oh, I was wild with misery after that night. 
I cared not whither I went — I neither ate nor 
slept — I heeded nothing ; I had so long neglected 
my religious duties, that I was without comfort or 
support. 

“ The beautiful teachings and holy consolations 
which the Church had to offer me, and which, by 
the grace of God, I have since found, would have 
enabled me to see that my Father was not cruel, 
when he removed my child ; but I had strayed 
away from my allegiance to Heaven, and had made 
for myself idols, that now were taken from me.” 

“ My dear Fanny, you did not, I hope, neglect 
to have your child baptized.” 

“ Oh no, thank God, I was not so negligent as 
that. When I look back upon that period of my 
existence, it seems like a burning dream. I believe 
21 


242 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


that I must have been deranged, for I have no dis- 
tinct recollection about it. 

“From that time our "progress was steadily 
downwards. My husband ^appeared for a tune to 
feel the loss of our beautiful boy, but drank the 
deeper, until his health became so impaired as en- 
tirely to uniat him for business — ^he grew feeble and 
tottering, and when I entreated him to give up 
drinking, he answered me with imprecations. My 
life became a burden ; only that I felt I must live 
to take care of him, I should have wished to die at 
once. 

“ I was in hourly dread that he would be 
brought in to me a mangled corpse, or that he 
would commit some terrible deed, his temper had 
become so outrageous. One day, after a more pro- 
longed debauch than usual, he came home so hag- 
gard and pale, that I thought he could not live 
long, if he continued these courses. I tried to per- 
suade him to remain with me, and let me do some- 
thing for him ; but he said he was not sick, and 
swore that he would not remain in the house to be 
tormented — ^he took his hat to leave the room, 
but he could not support himself, and fell fainting 
on the floor. This was the first of those dreadful 
fits of delirium, which terminated so fatally. 

“ His ravings in his delirium were so frightful 
as completely to unnerve me. I had no control 
over him, and was obliged to send for some of his 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


243 


companions to assist me in keeping him in his bed. 
All his fury was directed against me. I appeared 
to be the object of his greatest hatred ; sometimes 
he would shriek out, that I was urging fiends to 
seize him, or that I was worrying him with dogs, 
or pinching and tearing his flesh with hot irons. 

“ Those few days were dreadful ! never shall I 
forget the horror and agony I endured one day, as 
I entered the room ; the men who were with him 
had fallen asleep, and he had crawled up the chim- 
ney to conceal himself, he said, from the fiends who 
were watching for him — they had just drawn him 
from his hiding-place, he was screaming and strug- 
gling violently, covered with soot, and a frightful 
object to behold — his ravings and curses made my 
blood curdle in my veins, until at length he sank 
exhausted on the bed, and fell into a sleep, the first 
he had had for several days ; he awoke refreshed, 
and more calm than he had been for some time — he 
knew me, and spoke kindly to me, and took some 
refreshment from my hand. After I had seated 
myself beside him, I smoothed back the hair from 
his forehead, and took a little comb, and, as I had 
often done in former and happier days, began 
gently combing the still beautiful locks that fell 
over his brow — he looked steadily and sorrowfully 
at me for a few moments, then burst into tears. 

“ ‘ How wretched I have made you, my poor 
Fanny,’ said he, at length ; ‘ can you forgive me. 


244 


LIZZIE MAITLAI^D. 


when I have repaid all your affection and kindness 
with such brutality ? ’ 

“ I wept too, for it was the first word or look 
of affection that I had received from him for 
months ; my tears relieved me, for I had become 
so callous and seared, dead to every thing. ‘ Oh ! 
Fanny,’ said he, ‘ do not leave me. Send away 
those dreadful men, the sight of them makes me 
feel wild again.’ 

“ I was but too happy to have it in my power 
to dispense mth their presence, so I told them I 
thought he had so far recovered, that I should be 
able to manage him myself — ^he continued calm, and 
fell asleep again. 

“ ‘ Fanny,’ he said, when he awoke, ‘ get me 
some paper and ink, I wish you to write to my 
father for me.’ I sat down beside him, as he de- 
sired ; I did not feel alarmed, for I thought it only 
a slight return of fiightiness, as he appeared other- 
wise perfectly calm, his eyes looked far less wild, 
and his breathing was free and natural. I took the 
pen, and arranged the paper, and waited for him to 
dictate, as I did not know but he really might wish 
to write to somebody else, and had mentioned his 
father by mistake. 

“ After a few moments’ thoughtfulness, he said, 
‘ give me the pen, I cannot tell you what I wish to 
say ; ’ he raised himself and sat on the side of the 
bed, and I placed the table before him. ‘ Open the 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


246 


window, it is so close here,’ said he, ‘ I want more 
air.’ I did as he desired, and sat down again at a 
little distance ; he wrote a few lines, then covered 
his face with his hands. ‘ Oh ! I cannot write to 
the poor old man what I wish to say ; it will break 
his heart when he hears that I have gone where I 
have so often wished myself in my drunken revels. 
Fanny,’ said he, throwing down the pen, and push- 
ing the table away, ‘ come and sit here, close be- 
side me — quick ! — there — there — drive away that 
creature — don’t you see him mocking at my dis- 
tress ! he is tempting me to go with him.’ 

“ I became alarmed, but tried to soothe him ; I 
was fearful that the paroxysms would return if he 
commenced in that strain. I put my arm about 
his neck, and kissed him ; he looked up into my 
fece, and smiled fondly, and seemed pleased and 
soothed. In our happy days he used to like to hear 
me sing ; I asked him if I should sing to him now ? 
He did not reply, and I began a little song that I 
used to sing to my child. In an instant he started 
away from my embrace, and springing to the other 
side of the room, he glared at me, and shuddered 
fearfully — ‘ Woman,’ shrieked he, ‘ you are tempt- 
ing me again to go — you’re a fiend come for me ; 
but I will not go with you. Stand off ! ’ cried he 
now with a terrified glance. ‘ I tell you I will not 
go with you.’ 


246 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


“ ‘ Henry ! dear Henry ! come back to me ! it 
is your own wife, Fanny Maitland,’ said I, softly. 

“ ‘ No, no — you are not Fanny — you are a 
fiend ; Fanny Maitland was young and beautiful — 
you are pale and thin. Fanny was not such a 
wretched-looking creature. You are a fiend — a 
fiend,’ shouted he, ‘ tempting me to go ; but you 
shall not cheat me — I’ll escape you — ha — ha — ^ha.’ 
A wild, discordant laugh, broke upon my ear, and 
before I could scream for assistance, he had jumped 
from the window. The rest of my painful story 
you already know,” said poor Fanny, giving way 
to her emotions. But we must leave her with Sis- 
ter Mary Agatha, while we follow some of our 
other friends in their travels. 




CHAPTER XX. 


“ No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels ; 

No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals. 

And thou, sad sufferer, under nameless ill. 

That yields not to the touch of human skill, 

To thee the dayspring, and the blaze of noon, 

The purple evening, and resplendent moon, 

Shine not, or undesired, or hated, shine, 

Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine. 

Yet seek Him^ in His favor life is found ; 

All bliss beside a shadow or a cloud ; 

Then Heaven eclipsed so long ; and this dull earth. 

Shall seem to start into a second birth.” 

COWPKB. 

Many long, weary months had passed away, and 
Lizzie had striven to conceal the pain in her heart 
that she could not subdue. She had visited, with 
her father and mother, the celebrated Springs of 
Germany, had glided over the far-famed Rhine, had 
travelled through Switzerland and rested on the 
shores of its lovely lakes, hut the health of the in- 
valid had not improved as much as her husband 
and daughter had fondly hoped, and now she began 
to grow weary of the life she had led to satisfy them, 
and expressed such an earnest desire to return 
home, that Mr. Maitland resolved to gratify her — 


248 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


and news that Father Bailey received from his 
parish made him feel equally anxious to accelerate 
their departure. 

They had been spending some months at a retired 
village or rather watering-place, in a secluded vaUey, 
famous for the salubrious qualities of its waters, 
and the invigorating breezes that floated through 
the rich and fertile valleys that surrounded * it. 
The house had once been a convent or monastery, 
something of the sort, for there were still visible 
in some parts of the building traces of its former 
uses. On one side rose a high mountain, whose 
rugged summit seemed half-hidden by the clouds 
that enshrouded it. A wild shallow stream gurgled 
at its base, and its soft murmurs mingling with the 
lowing of the herds, and the monotonous tinkling 
of their bells, as they strayed hither and thither, — 
or formed picturesque groups under the inviting 
shadow of some stately tree, — and the wild songs 
of the peasants as they rose in clear, full tones, 
waflied on the evening breeze, or sank into the 
softened minor cadences, most natural to untutored 
voices, found its way to Lizzie’s heart with a sooth- 
ing influence. 

This strong love for natural scenery which had 
always characterized Lizzie, and afibrded her some 
of the purest joys and holiest lessons of her life, 
is one of the last passions that dies out of the heart : 
neither sickness nor sorrow quenches it. Satiety 


LTZZIE MAITLAND. 


249 


cannot produce in the soul that disgust and weari- 
ness that spring from the indulgence of any other. 
If in old age it brings not the glowing enthusiasm 
and rapture of youth, yet it comes over the soul 
with a softening and elevating influence, which, like 
the mists of early morning, linger, as if unwilling 
to disperse, and break away only to give place to 
the more glorious light of another day. 

The sun went early to his rest behind that high 
mountain, and it was early yet in the day when the 
lengthened shadows began to creep along, bring- 
ing with them, more especially to hearts saddened 
by disappointment, that undefinable sense of gloom 
and melancholy so difficult to shake ofl*. As the 
silent shadows steal over us, and the dim twilight 
advances, the burdened spirit sometimes starts back 
from the black darkness of the night that is com- 
ing on, as if already oppressed by the weight of 
the “ coming events which cast their shadows be- 
fore.” 

Many an hour had Lizzie watched the sunset 
from her casement, and as the little birds, twitter- 
ing and nestling close, at last folded their wings 
and sought shelter of their leafy bowers, she had 
longed like them to be at rest. God forbid that 
she should wish time away, or her life to end, but 
such a heavy blight had fallen on her young spirit, 
that she was no longer buoyed up with the bril- 
liant anticipations and hopes of youth, but performed 


250 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


her daily routine of little cares from a sense of duty 
to God, and grateful affection towards her parents* 

Although on their arrival they had found letters 
awaiting them from various quarters, there were 
none from Fanny, but still they flattered them- 
selves it was on account of the frequent change of 
residence during the past months that no news of 
her welfare had reached them. Lizzie sighed as 
she sought in vain for Mary’s well known hand- 
wiiting : she thought her so absorbed in her own 
happiness that she could spare no thought for her 
absent friend. It was no strange thing that her 
wounded heart shrank from the contemplation of 
Mary’s fancied bliss, and that she did her some 
little injustice in her secret thoughts. 

One day, oppressed by more than usual sadness, 
she went out to take her accustomed stroll along 
the lake shore. Her attention was attracted to a 
group of pretty children seated on the sands. The 
eldest, a girl of about ten years, appeared to take 
a motherly care of the infknt which she held in her 
arms, and the pretty boy who was rolling in the 
sand started up and clung to his sister’s dress, and 
held down his head bashfully as Lizzie approached. 

The little girl arose and curtseyed, and replied 
in the softest French accent as Lizzie saluted her. 
There was something so winning in her maimer 
that Lizzie felt impelled to stop beside them. 

By her gentleness she soon won their confidedce, 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


251 


r j and the young Celeste informed her that her 
s. I mother was a soldier’s widow, and that she helped 
j to cultivate the flowers which she sold to support 
e i her mother and little brothers, and that sometimes 
1 ! her mother took lodgers to eke out their scanty 
I living ; and in the season, she continued, “ I sell 

I strawberries to the ladies, and mind the children 
IS : for my mother when she is ill.” 

i “ Is your mother oflen ill ? ” asked Lizzie, “ and 

II do you not sometimes get tired of carrying such a 
r large child ? ” 

r “ Oh no. Miss, Henri is our darling, I am never 
I tired of him,” and she hugged him closer, while he 
e clasped his little dimpled arms tighter about her 
neck, and nestled his chubby face against her 
shoulder, and peeped out slyly at Lizzie, as if fear- 
j ing by some mischance he might lose his nurse. 

'“Oh I am never tired of little Henri — and my 
e mother is often ill. Miss, and would have died when 
e my father did if it had not been for the good 
r young English gentleman who lodged with us.” 
e ' “ Who is he ? ” Lizzie asked in spite of herself, 

1 ; feeling an interest for which she could not account. 

' “ Did you say he lodges with you ? ” 
i “ Yes, Miss, he did^ but he’s gone away now — I 
don’t know who he is, only he is so tall and handsome, 

• and so good,” said Celeste earnestly, her little face 
brightening with the recollection of his kindness — 

^ “ My father came home ill, and he had but httle 


252 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


money and that was soon spent, and he could not 
work to get more ; so mother put up a little card say- 
ing she had a room to rent, and this gentleman was 
the first who came ; and when he saw how ill my 
father was, he spoke such kind words ; and, when my 
father told him he feared such a nice gentleman would 
not be suited with the humble fare, he told him he 
liked the pretty cottage so near the lake, and that all 
he wanted was the quiet chamber, that he would not 
trouble my mother for any thing else. And Miss, 
when my father grew worse and died, he read to 
him and consoled him, and brought the Priest to 
see him, and my mother was so happy, for she said 
it was many a day since he had seen his Priest be- 
fore, and she feared he would die without being 
willing to see one at last; — he paid for all my 
father’s sickness,” said the child innocently — “ and ' 
brought a doctor himself, and paid mother such a 
large sum for the room, that indeed. Miss, we were 
very comfortable, and we were quite sorry when he 
went away ; but he promised to return this month, 
and my mother keeps his room for him, and I put 
fresh flowers there almost every day, hoping he will 
come soon again. I will show you the chamber. Miss, 
if you would like to see it,” said the child simply. 

“ Can you read ? and where did you get this 
pretty book ? ” said Lizzie, taking up a little one 
the children had laid down. 

“ The English gentleman gave it to me. My 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


253 


mother taught us a little, and the gentleman 
helped me a great deal. He taught my little 
brother his letters, for mother said she could not 
spare the time, for Francois was so giddy he would 
always run off to play, until the English gentleman 
brought some very pretty toys which he said he 
would give him as soon as he had learned his les- 
sons. Francois loved him very much, and he tried 
to be attentive, and he was very proud when Mon- 
sieur Edouard praised him.” Monsieur Ed-der 
ward^'' as the child said, trying to give the English 
pronunciation. The name rang on Lizzie’s ear, it 
was so long since she had heard it. A flood of 
recollections rushed over her, and for a moment 
she forgot the child and her prattle. At length 
rising to go, she told Celeste that her mother 
was quite an invalid, and very fond of flowers, 
and that she must come every day and bring her 
some. 

She thanked Lizzie warmly for her kindness, 
and said her mother would be glad to see the lady 
who would engage her flowers, for she continued : 

“ I sometimes pull all my prettiest ones and go 
and carry them about until they are nearly wither- 
ed, and no one will buy, and then. Miss, I feel sad, 
because my mother needs the money to buy our 
food and clothes ; but if you will take my flowers, 
I shall not have to walk until I am so weary, and 
lose them all at last — and while I am so long away, 
22 


254 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


my mother has no one to help her to attend little 
Henri, and do any thing for her when she is ill and 
cannot help herself.” 

Lizzie inquired where, she lived, and the child 
pointed out a neat little cottage not far distant, and 
to gratify her, she walked with her to the house. 

She found the mother, as she had been led to 
expect from the appearance of the children, a 
woman of singularly modest and respectable de- 
meanor ; she was much interested, and before she 
parted from them, the baby had almost ceased to 
turq away and hide his face in the fair neck of his 
young sister. 

“ Would you like to see the English gentleman’s 
room,” said Celeste, as Lizzie rose to depart. 

Lizzie smiled at the child’s pertinacity, and 
walked with her to the door. It was not a remark- 
able chamber, certainly, only in the child’s mind it 
was associated with so much that was of the high- 
est interest to herself, that she could not realize 
that a stranger could not feel the same. 

Lizzie glanced around ; there was a neat bed- 
stead, with its snowy coverlet, a few chairs, a table, 
upon which Celeste had placed the flowers, a win- 
dow-curtain of the simplest muslin, and on the wall 
hung a pair of riding gloves and a whip. Lizzie’s 
eye rested upon them for a moment. Why should 
they possess more interest than any of the other 
articles, of which the room contained so few? 


LIZZIE MAITLAOT). 


255 


There were doubtless ten thousand just such gloves 
and whips in the world — why, except as being 
more intimately connected with the occupant, did 
they seem familiar ? She could not help thinking of 
such riding gloves on well known hands, and well 
beloved features associated themselves with them, 
and Lizzie mused once more. 

“ Please do. Miss — come again,” urged Celeste, 
as she followed Lizzie to the door. 

Bright and early the next morning the child 
was at Mrs. Maitland’s room with the roses, fresh 
and lovely, clustering on the stem. Lizzie fulfil- 
led her promise, and visited frequently the cottage 
of Madame Holstein, where she bid fair to rival 
the young Englishman in the affections of the house- 
hold. 

At last the long desired letters arrived. Re- 
turning one day from her favorite walk on the lake 
shore, whither she was almost daily accompanied 
by the children, she met her father just entering 
the house, with the ardently wished for letters 
from home. There was one for her, in Mary’s 
handwriting ; she seized it with an avidity that al- 
most startled herself, and went to her own room to 
read it. It was a long one, and had been written 
at different intervals, and the latter part of it after 
a wasting illness. 

“ My dear Lizzie,” she began, “ you must in- 
deed have thought it strange and unkind, that I 


256 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


should have allowed so long a time to elapse with- 
out writing to you, but, my dear friend, you may, 
perhaps, have surmised that I have had many se- 
rious trials to encounter.* My father’s indignation 
even surpassed the bounds that I, who knew so 
well his abhorrence of the faith I have embraced, 
had set as the limit. I strove as far as I could to 
disarm him, by a perfect obedience to his com- 
mands in every thing that did not involve any com- 
promise of my faith. I refrained from attempting 
to go out of the house, from receiving or writing 
any letters, as he had commanded me ; in fact, 
every wi’itten communication, by a strange infatua- 
tion, he persisted in declaring to be some instiga- 
tion of the priests, some agency of concealed Jes- 
uitism, to wheedle me away from my friends. My 
dear Lizzie, you who have passed through no such 
trials, cannot imagine the tax upon one’s patience 
and Christian forbearance, to hear the religion you 
love disparaged, and its professors incessantly de- 
nounced as a set of vile, scheming, unprincipled 
villains, in sheep’s clothing. 

“ My very heart turned sick within me, at the 
ignorant falsehoods I was daily called upon to re- 
fute ; it would be impossible in even the most de- 
graded society, to conceal such foul crimes, as are 
constantly imputed to those dear Sisters of Mercy 
and Charity, and all those pious souls, whose whole 
lives are one generous offering to God — those gentle 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


267 


and excellent beings whom you and I have so 
loved, and whose virtues we have so desired to 
imitate; and whose holy and self-denying lives, 
those wha thus vilify, and load them with these 
base imputations, could not imitate for a single 
day. And also the priests, those humble servants 
of God, who, whenever pestilence and death are 
rife in our midst, will be found at the bedside of 
the wretched and suffering poor, with the consola- 
tions of our religion ; and whose will be the only 
hands to bring succor and relief; whom neither 
poverty, suffering, nor death, can affright or repel, 
not even when the ties of kindred and affection 
have failed; they will be found, alone^ and im- 
daunted, at the death-bed, when even those near- 
est and dearest have shrunk back appalled, or fled 
in terror — ^these are the men we hear traduced, 
and whose every little failing, or human imperfec- 
tion, is paraded before the ill-natured world. 

“ I sometimes think the enemies of our religion 
pay it involuntarily a high tribute of homage, by 
the perfection they exact from its professors. 

“ I have been compelled to sit and hear the ar- 
guments of the most learned Protestant divines ; 
they have been brought here to persuade me, to 
reason with me. I have protested that there 
could be no fairness in setting all their learning 
and experience against the feeble logic, and crude 
arguments, of a young and inexperienced girl, who 
22 * 


268 


TJZZnc MATTLAIO). 


has nothing to bring against this array of erudition, 
but her simple faith. 

“ One old friend of my father’s, who, no doubt, 
was perfectly sincere in ‘his desire to reclaim me, 
lamented earnestly that he had not known it in 
time, before I fell into the errors that have encom- 
passed me, and which, he says, will inevitably der 
stroy my soul ; if he had only been aware in time, 
he could have convinced me of the corruption of 
the whole foul system — ^the abominations of the# 
priestcraft, &c., &c. 

I told him honestly, that he was quite wel- 
come to do so still, that his arguments were just as 
sound and weighty now, as before, and that if he 
could convince me of the truth of what he as- 
serted, that I would even yet relinquish all, for my 
earnest desire is, to follow truth, and not error. 

“ I almost blush to tell you that, for a time, 
my father would not admit me to his presence. I 
did not leave my room, I received my meals in my 
own chamber, and did not leave the house under 
any pretence, untU a return of the hemorrhage 
alarmed my mother excessively, and awoke in my 
father’s heart something like his old love for me. 
And after all, Lizzie, there is in the breasts of the 
American people, a love of the earnest and true, 
however it may be obscured by prejudice ; it still 
beats there warm, and strong, giving an impetus 
to their actions that they little suspect themselves. 


LIZZIE MATTLAOT). 


259 


“ Even my dear father, since he has found that 
it is not an idle whim of the passing moment, but 
a sincere conviction, has learned to respect my sin- 
cerity and earnestness, although his opinions and 
belief, which he desires to substitute for my faiths 
lead him to different conclusions. JSTobody is half 
so much astonished as himself, that he has learned 
to tolerate Catholicity in any form; but, some- 
times, dear Lizzie, I half fancy that it is my hollow 
cough, and feeble frame, that appeal more power- 
fully to his heart, than my arguments or consis- 
tency to his sense of justice, or convictions of 
truth. 

“ Mrs. Ellicott’s urgent appeals, (for she would 
not be repulsed, and on account of her relationship, 
and her influence "with papa, she can take more lib- 
erties than any body else,) have finally convinced 
him that she was entirely innocent of any agency 
in my ‘apostasy,’ as he will persist in calling it, 
and have at last induced him to sanction my en- 
gagement with Charles, and now I am permitted 
the consolation of seeing my friends, and of re- 
ceiving and answering letters.” 

Lizzie started, and, clutching the letter in one 
hand, she held the other over her wildly throbbing 
heart, to still its beatings — she half averted her 
head, as if to clear away the mists before her eyes, 
that she might be sure she saw aright — she looked 
again, and again — ^yes, there it stood, “ my engage- 


260 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


ment with Charles ” — bright, vivid, distinct, like a 
sunbeam, and every thing else on the sheet floated 
dim, confused, and misty, like the motes in the soli- 
tary ray of sunlight, tha't penetrates a darkened 
chamber through a crevice in the shutter. Had it 
then been all a cruel mistake, the weariness and 
desolation of the last few months, which had bowed 
down her young heart with the sorrowful convic- 
tion that the blessed season of hope was past, that 
henceforward, for her, only memory was left? 
Was it indeed all a reality that flashed across her 
dazzled vision ? 

She read it over and over, and seemed at last 
to catch sight of the mournfulness of Mary’s man- 
ner, and to realize the declining health of the poor 
girl. A deep blush suffused her face, as she 
thought of the dreams she had been indulging, 
when perhaps Edward had already forgotten her 
existence; she tried to persuade herself that she 
also had become as indifierent to him — she was 
ashamed of the emotion she had felt, and of her 
selfishness, that could make her overlook the suf- 
ferings which Mary had endured. Kow her heart 
was filled with pity, and she longed to throw her 
arms about her, and console her. Poor Lizzie 
Maitland! you need not reproach yourself so 
keenly, your httle heart is human, and full of natu- 
ral impulses. You recollect you never could be 
perfect ; you may put what restraint you are able 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


261 


upon it, but there will break out, in spite of you, 
such little weaknesses, and it is good for you to 
see them, they will teach you humility. 

“I hope,” the letter continued, “to see you 
before many months shall have elapsed ; my letter 
has been interrupted and laid aside, from illness — 
I resume it, my dear Lizzie, as I am still suffering 
from weakness, and writing is not the very best 
thing for the shattered state of my nerves. 

I “ Charles is impatient for me to appoint my 
wedding-day, but mamma shakes her head, and 
looks so sorrowful, that, although I strive to cheer 
her by hopes that I cannot feel myself, yet, dearest 
Lizzie, my failing strength, and this wearing cough, 
admonish me that another Bridegroom may soon 
claim me for his own. I long to say it, and I may 
to you, that death seems to me hke a pleasant re- 
\ lease from the cares and suffering that are the lot 
f of all in this life. It is sorrow, not fear, that the 
! Christian should conceive at the sight of his sin. 

Christ, his judge, has died to save him from the 
' penalty ; and now, Lizzie, since I have all the aids 
and consolations of my religion, death seems to 
have lost its terrors for me ; if it is the will of my 
Heavenly Father, I can leave the world without a 
sigh of regret, — only for my parents. My poor 
: mother cannot endure to hear me express this wil- 
lingness, and she looks so sorrowfully, and almost 
, reproachfully at me, that I cannot talk freely to 


262 


LIZZIE MAITLAm). 


her ; and it is such a comfort to do so without re- 
serve to you, that you must forgive me. Poor 
mamma seems to feel that it is because of the mis^ 
understanding between' my father and myself. 
Would to God I could make her sensible of the de- 
light and happiness I have derived from my newly 
acquired faith, which more than counterbalances 
any little sacrifices that I may have been called to 
make, and what — oh ! what in comparison are the 
sufierings of this present life ? 

“ Charles shuts his eyes to the truth, and ut- 
terly refuses to see or believe that my health is so 
precarious — ^he thinks it only the present agitation 
that I have undergone, and gives way to impa- 
tience, and refiects on second causes in a way that 
gives me much pain to witness ; sometimes it is 
poor papa, and sometimes the doctor’s unskilful- 
ness, that he blames. Mrs. Ellicott is as kind and 
gentle as ever, and soothes me, but dearest Lizzie, 
how weary I feel, and how I long sometimes to 
fly away, and be at peace. Do not reproach me 
for being selfish, it is not so ; but thank God for 
the grace of resignation that he has in mercy be- 
stowed upon me, for I feel assured that the blow j 
is inevitable, and must soon fall upon my parents 
and friends ; and my daily prayer is, that it may be 
sanctified to them. You will come to see mamma, ^ 
dear Lizzie, when I am gone, and comfort her, and ' 
say to her, theuy what it would be a sweet satisfao 


MZZtE MAITLAND. 


263 


• tion for me to be able to say now ; but her reluc- 
r tance to hear a word from mo on the subject, pre- 
vents. Oh! if our friends knew how it would 
soften the pain of separation, and what an allevia- 

• tion it would be to the departing, to be allowed 
to express theii* last wishes, and to cheer them, by 

> imparting some of the consolations God bestows 
) on his children, they would strive to check their 
; grief, that the* last hours of the beloved might be 

quiet and peaceful, and the soul be able to pass 

• into the presence of its Judge, freed from any 

> earthly distractions. My only anxiety now is, that 
1 : I may be permitted to have aU the aids and conso- 

• lations of our holy religion in my dying hour. 
Pray for me, Lizzie, that my father’s prejudices 

5 may be softened, and so far subdued, that he will 
‘ permit me to receive, without hindrance, all the 
: ' holy sacraments and rites of the Church, but, above 
, all, pray that my will may be wholly resigned to 
I that of my Heavenly Father.” 

1 Lizzie’s tears rained over the letter, and many 
fervent prayers she poured forth for the succor and 
support of her young friend. 

A few days ago she also would have felt, that 
she could leave the fair, smiling earth, just as wil- 
lingly ; but it was not the holy resignation that 
Mary experienced— it was because the joy of life 
seemed so blotted out ; but now— now, hope had 
sprung up on rosy wings, and was soarmg afar off 


264 


UZZIE MAITLAND. 


in the faint azure, and memory no longer rolled in 
a leaden tide over her young soul. 

When Lizzie returned to her mother’s cham- 
ber she found her father, and Father Bailey, al- 
ready there, and all witb sorrowful countenances, 
and to her surprise and indignation she learned 
that the amiable, pious, and devoted priest whom 
Father Bailey had left in his place, had been at- 
tacked while in the discharge of his missionary du- 
ties, in a distant town, by a gang of disguised ruf- 
fians, stripped of his clothing, robbed of his watch 
and money ^ beaten, tarred and feathered, and left 
in a ditch at the roadside, exposed to the pitiless 
peltings of a cold autumn storm, and had nearly 
perished from the effects of this brutality and ex- 
posure, but, through the merciful protection of Al- 
mighty God, he had been preserved fi’om death, 
and had survived the cruel treatment, and was 
again restored to his people ; and at the same time 
in an adjacent town, the Catholic Church had been 
assaulted and nearly demolished, and in the blind 
zeal and fury to show hatred and contempt of the 
Catholic religion, the cross, the blessed symbol of 
Redemption^ had been torn down, and trampled un- 
der foot, and broken in pieces. 

“ I did not think,” said Mr. Maitland, “ that in 
my beloved New England, such an outrage could 
have been perpetrated ; but I see with the most 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


265 


painflil regret, the growth of hatred and ill-feelings 
towards Catholics, within the last two years.” 

“For the honor and credit of the community, 
I am happy to be able to state,” said Father 
Bailey, “ that the respectable portion of the inhabi- 
tants of an adjoining village expressed strong dis- 
approbation of such wanton excesses, and made 
what restitution they were able to the priest who 
had been so wickedly and maliciously assailed in 
the discharge of his duty ; but the indignity of- 
fered to the cross upon which Christ died, remains 
unatoned, and the pretty church is still in ruins — 
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what 
they do,” said he, sorrowfully, as he folded up the 
letter. 

“ I do not believe,” said he, after a pause, “ that 
this outbreak of ill-will and hatred to Catholicity 
is at all of American growth — ^it has been imported, 
and is but the echo of the rancor and hatred that 
give birth to the Orange riots, and the fierce feuds 
that disgrace the Old World — the idle and vicious 
are borne along by the current of evil passions, but 
the real true-hearted American is not by nature 
intolerant, or a persecutor ; there is nothing in the 
nature of his free institutions to make him so, 
and by and by the great heart of the nation will 
awaken, and beat true to its own generous im- 
pulses, and scorn to be swayed by the hatred and 
time-worn feuds of the old world.” 

23 


266 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


“ God grant it may be so,” Mr. Maitland said, 
sadly ; “ but I fear that many excesses will first be 
committed, which will be the source of grief and 
shame to many an honest heart.” 

Father Bailey was about to reply, when Brid- 
get ushered into the room the little Celeste. 

The child’s fair round face was half wild with 
affright, as she besought Father Bailey to come 
quickly to the young English gentleman, her 
mother’s lodger, who had been knocked down and 
trampled by the post horses, in trying to rescue 
her little brother, who ran out to meet him just as 
he arrived. 

“Please do come. Miss, to see my mother,” 
said the child, in her broken accents, and catching 
Lizzie’s hand — “ for my mother is so unhappy, be- 
cause my little brother is hurt.” 

“ Stay — tell me ” — Lizzie said, drawing the 
child towai’ds her, “ tell me, is your little brother 
hurt? ” 

“ Yes, Miss ; I could not stop to see how much, 
for one of the women put me out of the room, and 
bade me fly to ask the good priest to come quickly 
to see the English gentleman, before he died, be- 
cause he asked for him, himself, and mother cried 
so much I could not ask her any questions ; they 
put Francois on the bed, and told me to fly — the 
doctor was coming too, they said — oh, Miss ! do 
come with me.” 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


26V 


Lizzie rose to follow the child ; Father BaUey 
was already out of the house, on his way to visit 
the wounded man. Lizzie walked rapidly beside 
the child, whose impatience and sorrow could 
scarcely be controlled, until they reached the house. 
As she passed up a flight of steps on the outside 
of the house, leading to an upper apartment which 
Madame Holstein now occupied, with her little 
family, having recently let out the remainder of 
the lower part of the house to a quiet neighbor, 
she saw gathered around the door of the ground 
floor, a crowd, that she rightly judged had been 
attracted by the accident to the Englishman. She 
passed on, pausing only to inquire if he still lived, 
and ascending the steps, she entered the chamber. 
The first sight that met her eyes, was a woman 
with a pail of water, kneeling beside a pool of dark 
blood, which she was wiping from the floor. The 
contrast was so striking between the white scoured 
boards, and that dark, ugly, crimson stain, that 
Lizzie shivered. Heavy sobs drew her attention 
towards the bed. As the woman stood back to 
make room for her, the wretched mother, with a 
groan, reached out her hand to her, and she saw, 
lying beside her, the little form of the child ; his 
short dress left exposed the plump, white limbs, 
and the little crimson plaid stockings, that but half 
covered them, and the shoes stubbed and worn at 
the toes, looked so like a tired child asleep, that 


268 


t.tz7:ttc MAITLAin). 


Lizzie could not realize, until she drew near, and 
took the cold, dimj)led hand in hers, and saw the 
kind neighbor tenderly washing the clots of blood 
from amid the golden curls that hung matted over 
the pale brow, that it could be death. 

The little arm fell down so listlessly when she 
released it, that Lizzie started, as if she had done 
something ungentle. Can there be any thing that 
forces the appalling reality upon the mind, more 
than that helpless motion of the arm, as it falls so 
lifelessly beside the inanimate form of the beloved, 
in the first moments after dissolution ? There is 
still all the expression of life, but the sorrowful con- 
viction flashes across the soul, that it can never be 
raised to return the tenderest greeting. 

The mouth was closed, and there was no ap- 
pearance of distortion about the face, except that 
the eyes were partially open, and a slight contrac- 
tion of the brow, as if death had been so sudden 
as to leave no trace of the struggle, when the soul 
was thus rudely forced from its lovely dwelling 
place. 

Celeste caught sight of the little face, and her 
clamorous grief broke out wildly on the scene; 
she climbed upon the bed, and threw her arms 
about her dead brother, called him passionately by 
every endearing epithet to answer her once more 
— ^kissed his lips and brow, until her own little face 
was stained from contact with his. 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


269 


The woman tried to remove her, and to induce 
her to restrain her grief ; she would listen to noth- 
ing, but continued her wild lamentations, until her 
mother arose, and bringing the baby to her, called 
fondly and piteously : 

“ Oh, Celeste ! will you not try to console your 
poor sick mother ? Who will take care of our lit- 
tle Henri, if you forget us ? ” 

The baby at first stretched out its chubby arms 
towards Celeste, but when he saw her wild, disor- 
dered air, and the strange faces around, clung to 
his mother’s neck, and screamed aloud. 

Celeste roused herself at the cry, and checking 
suddenly, and by a strong effort, her emotion, rose 
up, and threw her arms around her mother and the 
baby. 

Lizzie drew them aU away into another room, 
and whispered to the women to complete every 
arrangement, while she endeavored to soothe the 
poor bereaved ones. 

Lizzie arose, and went softly to the outer room, 
where every thing had been made decent by the 
kind attention of the woman she had requested to 
attend to the necessary arrangements. All traces 
of the blood had been carefully removed from the 
little brow, and Francois lay like a sleeping child ; 
his mother had followed Lizzie, and breaking out 
into an agony of grief, she threw herself beside 
the child. Lizzie did not attempt to restrain this 
23 * 


270 


LIZZIE MAITLAKD. 


burst of sorrow ; but at length she asked if it 
would give her any comfort to see Father Bailey. 
The poor woman’s face brightened at the pro- 
posal, and signifying her gratification ; Lizzie de- 
scended the steps to ascertain whether he had yet 
left the house, and to inquire after the wounded 
gentleman. 

The crowd had dispersed about the door, and 
all was quiet ; she entered the door, and not find- 
ing any body, she crossed the room to another, 
where a low murmur of voices seemed to point 
out the way to obtain the information she desired. 
The door was not closed, and she advanced softly 
into the room, as she saw Father Bailey standing 
before a couch, with his back towards her, and 
screening the face of the person he was attending. 
He turned, as the rustle of her garments reached 
his ear, and said, advancing as if to lead her 
back ; 

“ You had better not expose yourself to this 
trial, my child.” 

But Lizzie heeded him not ; she had caught 
sight of the face as he turned, and sprang forward, 
and kneeling down beside the insensible form, as 
she supposed, of Edward Lee, seized his hand, 
covered it with kisses, exclaiming in a tone so full 
of anguish, that Father Bailey turned towards her 
in amazement : 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


271 


ti “ Oh ! Edward, dearest ! is it thus I find you ! ” 
On that instant he opened his eyes, and a 

• look full of joyful recognition passed over his 

* pale face — he tried to return the pressure of 
her hand, attempted to rise, and fainted. 










CHAPTER XXI. 


It was a clear, bright moming, late in the Autumn ; 
the sun shone pleasantly into the apartment, 
through the crimson curtains; a little fire had 
been kindled to drive away the dampness that 
might linger there. The only occupants were a 
handsome young man, apparently an invalid, and a 
young girl. The gentleman was seated in a high- 
backed arm-chair ; his dark hair hung in rich 
masses over a brow broad and fair, but very pale, 
and seeming more so from the contrast with the 
large black eyes that beamed beneath. 

He wore a handsome dressing-gown and slip- 
pers ; a rich velvet smoking cap lay carelessly on 
his knee, and his face beamed with happiness — hap- 
piness that comes but once in a lifetime. 

An open volume rested on the table beside him, 
but his gaze was bent on the blushing face of the 
fair young being who sat on a low ottoman not far 
distant. She seemed very busily engaged in 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


273 


making unmeaning scrawls, and very ugly profiles 
in a sketch-book that lay open on her lap. 

“And so, Lizzie — my own precious Lizzie,” 
said he, at length, leaning over her until his lips 
almost touched her brow, and the warm, rich color 
mounted to her temples ; “ and so you really did 
love me then^ even while you sent me away with 
such a cruel, unfeeling little note ; see, I have it 
here — shall I read it to you ? ” taking it fifom his 
bosom. “ I kept it always beside me.” 

“ ISTo — no,” Lizzie said, eagerly, trying to get 
possession of it ; “ it was not unfeeling — ^it was 
any thing but that ; but,” said she, changing her 
tone, “ you men are too exacting ; I will make no 
more confessions — if I say A, I must say B, and so 
on, all through the alphabet ; can I not play the 
good Samaritan, and show a little kindness to a 
sick stranger in a strange land, without being 
called upon to own that it is for love of himself? 
And besides, you know very well that the doctor 
i said you must be kept quiet, and I have been left 
i' here to watch you, that you do not commit any 
imprudences,” said she, demurely, going on with 
her drawing. 

’ “ And Lizzie, wiU you not give me that happi- 

ness ? You are too tantalizing. After these two 
i long years, that I have waited in vain for one word 
of tenderness from your lips, or a single glance of 
affection from your eyes, you are not kind to sit 


274 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


away there, making those hideous profiles ! Lizzie, 
do not trifle with me — do not force upon my mind, 
but now relieved of fhe terrible load, the misera- 
ble fear that you are cold and mdifierent, that you 
do not love me as I love you ; you talk to me of 
calm and quiet, with this fever burning in my veins 
— I should have died, but for your image im- 
pressed on my heart. During all that agony of fe- 
ver and delirium, I saw your face bent over mine, 
as it was in that one lucid interval of my sickness. 
Do not, do not, Lizzie, keep me in suspense ; it is 
unworthy of you. I love you with my whole 
heart. I laid it at your feet two years ago ; I 
have never loved any other woman. I never shall ; 
if you disappoint me, I shall have no faith in the 
gentleness and truth of woman’s nature. Perhaps 
I have been too abrupt and straightforward ; it is 
my nature — cannot alter it. I have suflfered from 
doubts and fears, long and miserably. If you do 
not love me, Lizzie, tell me so at once, and let me 
go away, and do not torture me ever by another 
word of kindness.” He spoke earnestly, passion- 
ately, almost sternly ; he bowed his head upon his 
hands. 

Lizzie rose from the little couch where she had 
been sitting, and, going beside his chair, she drew 
his head softly to her bosom and imprinted a kiss 
upon his forehead ; then, clasping her arms about 
his neck, she whispered : 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


275 


“ Forgive me, Edward — dearest Edward ! I am 
— indeed I am — all your own ! ” 

Edward trembled violently ; he rose suddenly, 
and, clasping his arms about her, strained her to 
his bosom. 

“ Hoity-toity ! this is the way things go on 
when my back is turned ! A very pretty way truly 
to keep my patient quiet — more fever — more 
trouble again ! ” said the doctor testily to Mr. 
Maitland, who accompanied him. “ I might have 
known it when they left that young thing to nurse 
him — always the way ! But he is old enough to 
have more sense than to put himself into a fever ! 
I’ll stay away — there’s no use in a doctor’s coming 
here ! Nobody minds him ! I tell you, young man,” 
said he, going up fiercely to Edward, “ you will 
bring on a relapse if you go on this way. You are 
only half-cured yet — a little matter will set you off 
again ; and I am not going to have my reputation 
ruined by such nonsense. If you do not keep your- 
self quiet, you are a dead man.” Lizzie looked 
ready to faint with terror at the doctor’s words, 
but Edward would not release her ; he kept his 
arm about her waist, while he held out the other 
hand to the doctor, and tried to say something to 
pacify him. Mr. Maitland laughed outright at the 
doctor’s angry face, and Lizzie’s terrified one. She 
released herself from Edward’s side, and, going up 
to the doctor, she laid her little soft hands on his 


276 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


arm, and looked up into his face as if her life de- 
pended on his answer. “You don’t mean what 
you say — tell me you do not — ^tell me he is not in 
so much danger, and I will bless you.” He looked 
at first as if he would have shaken her off rudely ; 
hut her pleading face softened him, and he said, 
with a comical, confused sort of an air, something 
like a pacified bear, w^ho stops growling to receive 
the nuts and apples given to appease his rage, 
“ well, it may he not of dying ; hut he is in danger 
enough.” 

Mr. Maitland and Edward both understood him 
and laughed. Lizzie, though she did not perceive 
his meaning, felt reassured by his words. She 
turned upon Edward a look full of love and thank- 
fulness, and left the room. 

“I hope, sir,” said Edward, going up to Mr. 
Maitland in his straightforward, manly way, and 
extending his hand, “ I hope, sir, that we have your 
sanction for what you have just witnessed between 
your daughter and myself.” 

“You have, and may God bless you both,” he 
replied, taking his offered hand and pressing it 
warmly, while he turned to hide the tears that 
were filling his eyes ; “ but Lizzie is my only child, 
and you must forgive a father’s heart this natural 
pang at parting with a daughter so tenderly be- 
loved, even although she is bestowed where my 
judgment so heartily approves.” 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


211 


Dr. Harris blew his nose loudly. He was a 
broad, square-shouldered, strongly built English- 
man, with a kind heart, but a testy temper. He 
had a constitution of iron and a will to match ; he 
was most assuredly one of the last persons one 
would have chosen as a witness to a love-scene, not- 
withstanding he really had a fund of tenderness 
hidden away in the depths of his soul, covered by 
that rugged and repulsive exterior. His keen 
black eyes shot out fierce glances from behind his 
glasses, which he wore from short-sightedness, not 
age ; and although to strangers he was certainly 
a forbidding person, to the Maitlands he was a dear 
friend in spite of his eccentricity. 

He blew his nose again vehemently, to conceal 
his emotion, ordered Edward in a peremptory 
manner to take some sedative and retire to his bed, 
protesting soundly against any more exciting con- 
versation for that day. 

Edward submitted with a very poor grace, in- 
sinuating that it was solely because Dr. Harris was 
a bachelor that he exercised such tyranny, in de- 
priving him so despotically of the only medicine 
that could work a speedy cure ; but the doctor was 
inexorable, and the only concession he could obtain 
was that Lizzie might read to him in the evening, 
if there was no return of his fever. Mr. Maitland 
joined with the doctor, and poor Edward yielded 
at last to the disagreeable necessity. 

24 


278 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


Edward’s convalescence was not as speedy as 
could have been desired. Day after day wore 
away, and still the invalid was too feeble to under- 
take the journey homeward. Dr. Harris’s predic- 
tions were verified. Edward’s situation was more 
precarious than either Lizzie or he had imagined. 
The fever did return, and for days she hung almost 
breathless from anxiety over his sick bed. She 
watched with the anxious tenderness of love for the 
slightest abatement of his fever, and trembled when 
she beheld the ravages it had made in his frame. 

Edward had left Rome soon after the Maitlands, 
and had travelled through Switzerland and a part 
of Germany. He had made many resolves to for- 
get one who was so apparently indififerent to him ; 
but, by some mysterious influence or other, he had 
several times been close on their track — sometimes 
in the same town, as at the time of his accident ; 
but had never made his presence known to any of 
the family ; and Lizzie remained ignorant that he 
had not returned to the United States. She sup- 
posed of course that he had gone with the Ellicotts, 
and was not undeceived until Father Bailey had 
found him so ill at the house of Madam Dessaure. 
He had been removed immediately, and all that 
care and kindness could do to alleviate his sufier- 
ings had been done; for Mr. and Mrs. Maitland 
felt that they owed him a great debt of gratitude ; 
and Lizzie — but we will say nothmg of the feeling 


UZZIE MAITLAND. 


279 


that prompted her to hang over his couch with 
anxious tenderness, watching for the slightest 
abatement of his disease ; and it was in one of his 
lucid intervals, during that painful illness, that Ed- 
ward had seen her bending over him, with all the 
anguish she endured expressed in her sorrowful 
countenance. 

Poor Lizzie ! it had been her lot, not to accom- 
plish great deeds, but to watch and wait, and to 
subdue her own naturally impetuous and ardent 
feelings. God had laid upon her such trials as 
had purified her nature, and best fitted it for the 
duties she was called to fulfil. Through the long 
silent hours that she watched and prayed beside 
the couch of Edward, she had brought herself to 
submit her will to that of her Heavenly Father. 
She recollected how often, in the ardor of her feel- 
ings, she had desired to dedicate herself to God — 
to make one great sacrifice ; now she was brought 
to feel, how hard it is really to bring the ofiering 
that God requires. We come with the gifts and 
treasures that we can spare ; but when he demands 
our idols, we struggle, and murmur, and shrink 
back, grieved and stricken ; and, in our madness 
and despair, the rebellious soul cries out, “ why am 
I thus smitten ? has God forgotten the weakness 
and infirmities of his servant, that he should lay 
this heavy burden upon me ? ” 

As week after week flew by, our friends began 


280 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


to grow very impatient to return, and the news 
which they at length received of poor Fanny 
through a letter from Aunt Agnes, added yet 
another to the many reasons why they were all so 
anxious to depart for home. 

Lizzie shed many tears over Aunt Agnes’ his- 
tory of poor Fanny’s sufferings. She, poor girl, 
had no heart to write, and was, at the time, too 
weak to bear the excitement. The death of her 
little Willie they had learned from a letter from 
Fanny herself, which had only very recently found 
its way to them, but none of her subsequent and 
more bitter trials — these she had kept to herself, 
and since the last sad catastrophe she had been too 
ill to write. It was very humiliating, or would 
once have been, to Fanny’s proud heart to be 
obliged to return penniless to the shelter of her 
uncle’s roof after having persevered in her own 
headstrong fancies, contrary to the tender counsels 
and warnings she had there received; but other 
and better feelings had taken the place of the self- 
will that once had been her ruling motive of action. 

Lizzie wrote the tender est and most sisterlike 
letter, sympathizing with her sorrows, and assuring 
her of her unabated love, and entreated her to re- 
turn to them at Maitlandville. 

Mr. Maitland forgot every thing but that she 
was the orphan child of his dead brother, and bade 
her to return where a father’s love and protection 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


281 


awaited her. To Aunt Agnes he sent means to 
make ample provision for Fanny’s return, and for 
her present comfort. Kor was the institution that 
had sheltered his afflicted niece forgotten by his 
generous heart. 

Lizzie and Mrs. Maitland would have felt great 
regret that Aunt Agnes had been so far removed 
from them but for the consolation and succor that 
she had been enabled to afford poor Fanny in her 
deep sorrows ; they did not forget to thank God 
for the watchful providence that had made aU 
things work together for good. 

When Dr. Harris pronounced Edward con- 
valescent and fit to endure the journey, they parted 
from the good-hearted though eccentric doctor 
with many regrets. Edward and Lizzie did not 
forget poor Madame Holstein and her little family. 
She had felt very deeply the loss of her child, but 
bore it like a Christian who knows that it is a 
father who sends these trials. Edward’s bounty 
had placed the poor woman beyond the fear of 
want — and as she was competent to perform some 
nice kinds of needle and ornamental work, aided 
by the proceeds of their flowers and little garden, 
she was able to procure many comforts and even 
luxuries for herself and children — and her prayers 
and blessings followed Edward and Lizzie to their 
far-off home. 

Mrs. Maitland had improved very much within 
24 * 


282 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


the last few weeks, though she' was still very deli- 
cate, — and with two invalids in the party, they 
made less rapid progress in their journey than 
would otherwise have been the case. 

They remained some time in Paris for the sake 
of recruiting a little before commencing the sea 
voyage. 

A few evenings after their arrival they were 
agreeably surprised by a visit from their old friend, 
Dr. Singleton. 

“Why, Dr. Singleton,” said Mr. Maitland, 
“ this is quite an unexpected pleasure ! When did 
you leave the United States ? ” 

“ About two months since,” he replied ; “ being 
a bachelor, you know I have nothing very impor- 
tant to keep me at home, and I thought I would 
like to take a look once more at the aspect of 
affairs in the Old World.” 

“ Then you can give us recent accounts from 
home, more so than any of our letters. What 
news of importance is there on our side of the 
waters ? ” 

“ None of any particular interest just now that 
I know of — but as I am not very much of a poli- 
tician, I do not interest myself very deeply in such 
affairs at home, and may not be well advised.” 

The doctor did not quite tell the whole truth, 
nor the whole state of his affairs ; his friends in- 
sinuated that it was a slight feeling of pique and 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


283 


mortification at his defeat at a recent election, that 
had resulted in the success of the opposiug candi- 
date who was particularly the object of the doctor’s 
aversion — and the gossips said outright, that it was 
a matrimonial disappointment that had sent him 
abroad; perhaps it was something of both, and 
the combined repulses had not tended to increase 
the equanimity of the doctor’s temper ; so, to es- 
cape his own thoughts, and the loneliness of his 
bachelor establishment, he had resolved to try 
another foreign tour. 

“ What is to be the result of this movement of 
which I have seen so much in the papers for the 
last few months, against foreigners ? ” said Edward. 
“ It strikes me as not coming with a good grace 
from those who are so immediately the descendants 
of foreigners themselves ; but I think I perceive in 
it, of late, more especially an attack on Catholics, 
and have been surprised at the character of the 
debates in our legislative assemblies ; they seem at 
this distance, and to a looker-on, as wanting in 
dignity, and to partake more of the nature of re- 
ligious discussions and antipathies than of matters 
legitimately belonging to the province of grave 
bodies called together to regulate affairs of State 
policy.” 

“ Oh no,” said the doctor, “ it is not to the 
Roman Catholic religion that we are opposed, it is 
not to the religion of the foreigner who comes to 


284 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


our shores, but it is his temporal and spiritual 
allegiance to a foreign power, from which we re- 
quire his heartfelt abjuration. All other religious 
bodies have abjured that allegiance, and I am 
aware that Catholics profess to abjure temporal 
allegiance,” said the doctor with a manner imply- 
ing a doubt of their sincerity — “but that is not 
enough ; they must be free in spirit and in mind 
also, abjuring all kinds of allegiance to the Pope 
of Rome, and to the hierarchy of Rome.” 

“ I hope, doctor,” Edward replied, “ that I am 
mistaken, and that you reaUy do not feel the dis- 
courteous doubt of our sincerity that your manner 
implies, after the reiterated assurances of the fact 
that have been given by able and distinguished 
men. W e owe no allegiance whatsoever in temporal 
matters to the Pope, only in spiritual things, as the 
head of the Church, Christ’s vicar on earth.” 

“ Excuse me,” the doctor replied, “ I did not 
intend any personal offence, but I do desire to see 
every Roman Catholic Church among our Irish 
and German population an independent American 
church, receiving no archbishops or bishops from 
across the ocean — existing only by the fiat of the 
Vatican. I desire to see them holding all their 
rights and privileges under the authority of an 
American government and an American constitu- 
tion.” 

“ That is to say,” replied Edward, “ you would 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


285 


like to see the Catholic Church changed from a 
divine to a human institution (perhaps not exactly 
with the President at the head), but relinquishing 
their firm faith in the promises of the God-Man, to 
be with his church, and guide her all days, to be 
tossed hither and thither on the mass of human 
opinion — to be guided, perchance by the wild 
fancies of some heated fanatic, or in other words, 
to change Catholicity into Protestantism, which 
has, in the short space of three hundred years, 
changed her ‘ bill of faith ’ seven hundred and fifty- 
one times. 

“ When the founders of the Chm*ch of England 
separated (as you desire the American Catholics to 
do) from the Catholic Church, in the reign of 
Edward the VI., Cranmer drew up the thirty-nine 
articles, and the English Parliament being sum- 
moned, this act of Parliament, or in the words of a 
learned divine^ ‘ this bill of faith ’ was ascribed to 
the inspiration of the Holy Ghost, and an assembly 
of the most wicked men known to English history, 
usurp the place of Christ, invent a parliamentary 
creed, and as if in mockery of God, pass a ‘ hill of 
Redemption in riotous and shuddering blasphemy? 
I ask you, my friend, would you have the humble 
Catholic give up his firm faith (which oftentimes 
is his only possession), and. which carries him 
through the toils and suffering of the world, and 
triumphantly through the last mortal agony? 


286 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


Would you, I repeat, have him yield up this firm 
trust in what he solemnly believes to be the voice 
of Christ himself, to follow the changing doctrines 
of some wild enthusiast ? 

“ And let me ask you, what has England gained ? 
Is she happier, or more prosperous now, in the 
nineteenth century, than when, under the reign of 
her Catholic sovereigns, the name of pauper was 
imknown, and her destitute children were fed with ; 
unstinted and ungrudging hand, at more than three 
thousand institutions that have since been plundered, 
and their revenues diverted to pamper the haughty 
pride of a few overgrown churchmen, while the 
poor and starving subjects of Protestant England 
are seeking their bread on foreign shores ? Oh ! 
will you join your voice to this proscriptive and 
demoniac yell that has been raised in our happy 
and prosperous land against these victims of op- 
pression? Shall they be hunted and proscribed, 
and denied the privileges of honest citizens ? And 
you forget, my dear sir, that many a true-hearted 
and native born American, whose ancestors shed 
their blood to obtain this freedom, this liberty of 
conscience that is your proud boast, falls under the 
ban you would fasten on the neck of the foreign 
Catholic.” 

“ Oh, of course,” said the doctor, “ I did not 
intend to include native American citizens ; it is 
only foreigners and aliens.” 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


287 


“But, my dear sir, if you disfranchise all 
Catholics, you must see where such a course will 
1 lead, and how utterly opposed to the spirit of the 
constitution that provides for the free exercise of 
religious belief. Infidels, Jews, Pagans, all are ad- 
mitted freely to our shores. 

! “ Does it not appear to you, doctor, that this ex- 

clusive proscription of Catholicity savors more of 
Paganism than enlightened Christianity, more es- 
pecially while Mormonism unrehuked is fast spread- 
ing its demoralizing and pernicious doctrines in our 
midst? In this wild fanaticism, a dispassionate 
observer discerns only the spirit of hatred and 
; credulity, that made so many of the early Chris- 
tians victims to the popular fury, under the old 
Roman Empire. Then, as now, infamous women 
were brought upon the arena, and made to declare 
that they had been among the Christians, and 
witnessed ‘ criminal and licentious acts^ and circu- 
; lated, as they do now^ slanders as false and preju- 
dicial. Eusebius alleges, that, in his own day, 
during the reign of Maximin, in Damascus, a city 
of Phoenicia, infamous females were seized from 
the forum, and by means of threats and the fear 
of the torture, compelled to make a formal decla- 
[ ration that they had been privy to criminal acts 
and licentious deeds in their very churches. In- 
' fanticide was a frequent charge of their Pagan 
! enemies, and banqueting on human flesh. The 


288 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


neophyte, it was alleged, was made ignorantly to 
cause the death of the child, and afterwards com- 
pelled to feast on the flesh sprinkled with floui* ; 
and other revolting details were listened to with 
greedy ears by their Pagan foes. 

“ Then, as now, the Christians were reproached 
as '‘foreigners ’ and enemies of the Roman Empire, 
and their holy religion was denounced as a '-per- 
nicious Superstition? They were charged with 
other crimes, and details too revolting to mention 
were furnished to the multitudes who greedily 
awaited these ‘awful disclosures’ of the minions 
of the wicked Nero, who declared that they them- 
selves had been guilty of crimes and conspiracies 
against the Empire ; and I very much fear that the 
same spirit which made the horrid shout — ‘ Death 
to the Christian ! ’ ‘ The Christians to the lions ! ’ 
resound through the Roman Empire, is to-day 
raising in our beloved land this proscriptive cry 
against all Catholics and foreigners.” 

“Oh, it is not to the religion of the foreigner 
that I would object, neither is it to himself per- 
sonally, that I have a prejudice. I do not care- 
whether he speaks English, Irish, or Dutch, but I 
am not desirous of encouraging a great importa- 
tion of foreign paupers and jail-birds. No, it is 
not to his. religion I would object; I do not care 
what he may think of Transubstantiation, or of the 
Immaculate Conception, or Latin masses, but it is 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


289 


to his temporal and spiritual allegiance to a foreign 
power from which I would require his abjuration.” 

“ It is useless for me to reiterate,” said Edward, 
the denial to that stereotyped objection, which 
has been so many times refuted, that I can scarcely 
persuade myself that any intelligent man can any 
longer believe in its existence ; and as to the im- 
portation of foreigners, I have only to ask you, 
what would have become of this country, with its 
vast uncultivated plains and boundless tracks of 
forests, but for foreign labor ? and who but foreigners 
have felled these boundless forests, and braved the 
perils and privations of the wilderness, to lay the 
foundations of the peaceful and prosperous homes 
we now enjoy? Look at the descendants of for- 
eigners at the present day — look at their children 
filling with credit and honor some of the first 
places in the land — ^look at our statesmen — look at 
the bar in some of our most populous cities — can 
you not find Irishmen and Catholics there making 
our halls of justice ring, and the hearts of their 
American brethren thriU at the wild bursts of elo- 
quence from their impassioned hearts ? The Irish- 
man values an education above all things, and will 
strain every nerve to obtain such a blessing for his 
child ; he may pave the streets himself to-day, and 
twenty years hence some of his children and grand- 
children, grown arrogant by the possession of over- 
grown wealth, may lift their voices, like hundreds 
25 


290 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


of the present generation^ and join in the cry of 
hatred and contempt of foreigners and Catholics. 

“ It strikes me as being in bad taste, to say the 
least, from those demagogues, who, perchance, 
when they return to their domicils, often heated 
and excited by the effort to inflame the passions of 
other demagogues as furious as themselves, might 
find, at their own firesides, some articles of house- 
hold furniture, brought by father or grandfather, ^ 
mother, or grandmother, from a foreign home, of 
which it is stiU a cherished heir-loom. I am a no/- 
tive-born American — a New England man — and my 
father, and grandfather, before me : but I shall 
blush for my country when I see her refusing an 
asylum, or a cordial welcome, to the countrymen of 
Lafayette, the industrious and intelligent Ger- 
man, or to the persecuted and suffering Irish. Be- 
lieve me, doctor, this panic will pass away, and in 
the hearts of our countrymen their better nature 
will awaken. 

“ I do not, any more than yourself, desire to see ! 
the importation of ‘ foreign paupers, and jail-birds j 
neither would I object to the honest poverty of any || 
man, if he is willing and desirous to obtain a shel- I 
ter, and a livelihood. Give to the foreigner an asy- 
lum, give him the protection of the laws, and do | 
not rob him of his faith^ his most solemn pledge of I 
fidelity to his adopted country ; hold out to him, [ 
and to his children, the hope to rise as high in the ! 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


291 




scale as his own, and their individual merits will 
justify, and you give him an incentive to identify 
himself with the interests of the country, you fur- 
nish a motive for good citizenship ; but if the de- 
scendants of our signers of the Declaration of In- 
dependence — the countrymen of Washington, have 
become so distrustful, so narrow-minded, and 
bigoted ; and all Catholics must be debarred from 
the right to hold office, then, in the language of 
one of our eloquent statesmen,”* continued Ed- 
ward, reading aloud from the paper he still held 
in his hand, “ ‘ Deprive Catholics of all offices, bar 
them out from every avenue to political distinc- 
tion, deny to them the opportunities which you ac- 
cord without hesitation to infidels and atheists ; and 
when you have done it all, when you have placed 
their honest ambition to enjoy the honors and 
emoluments of political preferment, under the ban 
of a ruthless proscription, your work is not yet 
finished. There wiU still remain offices for them. 
Yes, my friends, the sweet offices of Christian love 
wiU still be left, and in the midst of your persecu- 
tions, their bishops and priests, as in the recent pes- 
tilence in your Southern cities, will throng the hos- 
pitals and the pesthouses, bringing succor and con- 
solation to the poor victims of the plague. Aye, 
and their Sisters of Charity wiU still brave the 


Speech of the Hon. R. M. Y. Hunter, of Virginia, 1 865. 


292 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


terrors of loathsome and infectious disease, will 
still wipe the death damp from the suffering brow, 
wiU still venture in, when the courage of man 
shrinks back appalled, and 'will point the dying 
gaze through the mysterious gloom of the valley 
of the shadow of death, to the Cross and the Cru- 
cified.’ ” 




CHAPTER XXII. 

It was a cold, raw morning, in March, the sun 
shone out occasionally, and every thing glittered 
with cold brightness, then dark clouds overshad- 
owed his rays, and fierce gusts swept against the 
casement, and the air would now and then be thick 
with snow-flakes ; it certainly was not very favor- 
able weather for an invalid, so thought an elderly 
lady, as she looked sadly out of the window for a 
few moments, then turned and gazed anxiously to- 
wards a pale, lovely-looking young creature, who 
I sat in a sumptuous velvet chair, her pale face look- 
ing more so from the reflection of the window cur- 
tains, and the deep crimson of the cushions against 
' which she leaned her frail and delicate figure. She 
was beautiful to behold ; her large lustrous eyes 
shone out like diamonds, as she turned them to- 
wards her mother ; the soft tresses, which once had 
been so luxuriant, hanging in rich masses over her 
25 * 


294 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


brow, were now thin, and partially concealed by a 
lace cap, and the blue ribbon that fastened it under 
the chin, gave an additional shade of paleness to a 
countenance already so white and transparent, as 
to make it evident to all that her days were num- 
bered ; her hands, thin and colorless, lay on her 
lap, a rosary twined through the slender fingers, 
told what her occupation had been ; her rich robe 
hung in folds about her person, and the little foot, 
scarcely larger than a child’s, was half buried in 
the soft cushion. 

The room was large and elegant, every article 
spoke of wealth and luxury ; the walls were 
adorned with paintings, and rose-wood cabinets 
curiously carved were filled with books — every 
thing that love and gold could supply, was gath- 
ered around. Mary continued to gaze fondly upon 
her mother, and earnestly, as if she had something 
she wished to say. 

“ What is it, love ? ” said Mrs. Heyward, draw- 
ing near, and stooping over, she imprinted a ten- 
der kiss upon her cheek ; “ do you not feel as well 
as usual, this raw, unpleasant day ? You look so 
pale, let me change that cap for one with brighter 
colors, it is the blue ribbon, perhaps — see ! here is 
another — let me put this one on your head.” 

“ If it will give you , any pleasure, my dearest 
mother, I have not the slightest objection. Do 
you think it will take the paleness out of my 


LIZZIE MATTLAini. 


295 


cheeks ? ” said Mary, gazing almost sadly at her 
mother’s anxious face. “ I fear it will make very 
little difference.” 

“Mary,” said Mrs. Heyward, her eyes filling 
with tears, “ do not speak so despondingly, you 
break my heart ; you will be better, the doctor 
thinks you will, as soon as the fine weather comes 
again, and then we will drive out every day ; it is 
very dull for you my love, I know, shut up in this 
room so long.” 

“ It is not dull to me, dear mother,” Mary said, 
looking around ; “ it is a beautiful room, and you 
and my father are very kind to supply me with 
every thing so elegant ; •nothing can be more com- 
fortable than this arm-chair for an- invalid, and 
nothing makes me sad or unhappy, but to see you 
so, dear mother. Come and sit close beside me, I 
wish to speak to you of something very near my 
heart.” 

“ Do not, do not Mary, talk to me of that ; I 
cannot have you teU me that you are going to die 
— I cannot bear it, Mary,” said Mrs. Heyward, 
bursting into a flood of tears. 

“ Ho, dearest mother, it is hot that,” Mary re- 
plied, putting her arms around her mother, and 
drawing her towards her ; “ it is not that, but an- 
other subject that I must speak to you about, and 
you will indulge me, I know you will, and listen to 
me, when I tell you how my heart yearns to see 


296 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


you embrace the faith that has brought such hap- 
piness and peace to my soul. Oh, mother ! the 
Catholic is the one^ true^ holy^ Apostolic Churchy 
established by Christ and his apostles, and there is 
no salvation out of it. 

“ Oh ! Mary, how can you say such uncharitable 
things to your poor mother, when she is already so 
unhappy ? it is unkind,” sobbed Mrs. Heyward. 

“ Forgive me, mother, forgive your dying child ; 
but it is prompted by the truest Christian charity. 
I must die, I must leave you ; Oh ! do not let the 
separation be eternal ! You can come to me ; 
God will not let me stay with you. The world is 
passing away from my hold ; but I rejoice at it. I 
bless God for his goodness to me in bringing me 
into the true fold, out of all those miserable doubts 
and fears that used so cruelly to distract my mind. 
I never knew when I was right, or when wrong. 
After all my best endeavors, I was tormented by 
some unhappy uncertainty. Now, I see so clearly ! 
every shadow has passed away. The only desire I 
have is to see you safe in the ark, mother. God 
calls you now by the voice of your dying daughter. 
Oh ! hear me. Come where his promise has been 
given — where it has never failed — ^where it can 
never fail.” 

“ Oh ! in mercy, Mary, do not say any more. 
You know that I cannot — I dare not — ^become a 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


291 


Oatliolic. Your father says he would not live with 
me a day if I were to take such a step.” 

“ Oh ! mother, is your faith then so weak ? My 
father’s conversion might be granted to your fideli- 
ty, and to your prayers. What if, through your cow- 
ardice, both your souls should be lost ! Think of 
it, mother — dearest, dearest mother — is not God 
able to take care of you ? Why do you not trust 
his goodness ? Has he not followed you with mer- 
cies all your life long ? 

“But he is a jealous God ; he will not permit 
any idols. He hath said, ‘ he that taketh not up 
his cross and foUoweth me, is not worthy of me. 
Whosoever shall deny me before men, I will also 
deny him before my Father who is in Heaven. If 
any man come to me, and hate not his father and 
mother, and wife and children, brethren and sis- 
ters, yea, his own life also, he cannot be my disci- 
ple. And whosoever doth not carry his cross and 
come after me, cannot be my disciple.’ ” 

“ Oh ! Mary, if you knew the dreadful struggle 
in my heart, you would not say any more. How 
can I brave your father’s anger and take such a 
step — I, who never ventured to cross him in my 
life ! and besides, I cannot think, Mary, but that 
good Christians can be saved in other churches.” 

“ If they are invincibly ignorant of the claims of 
the Catholic church, perhaps they may ; and if they 
are sure that they are wholly and entirely obedient 


298 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


to God’s will. But, motlier, there is no other church. 
Those who broke away from the church that Christ 
established, and to which he gave his promise, were 
guilty of pride and arrogance, and of the deadly 
sin of schism. They were smjF-appointed teachers^ 
and sacrilegious usurpers of the sacred office of the 
Lord's anointed servants. 

“ Mother, listen to the authority that God gave 
to his apostles and their successors, and to his one 
church ; ” and, taking up her Bible, she read ; 

“ ‘ As the Father sent me, I send you.’ 

“ ‘ All things wliich I have from the Father I 
have made known to you.’ 

“ ‘ Go ye into the whole worlds and preach the 
gospel to every creature.’ 

“ What church,” said Mary, pausing, “ but the 
Catholic church, has already done this ? ” 

“ ‘ Go ye to ail nations.’ 

“ ‘ He who hears you, hears me.’ 

“ ‘ He who despises you, despises me.’ 

“ ‘ Go ye and preach ; and he that believeth and 
is baptized shall be saved ; and he that believeth 
not shall be damned.’ 

“ ‘ io, I am with you all days to the consumma- 
tion of the world, and the gates of hell shall never 
prevail against it.’ 

“ ‘ I will send the Holy Ghost, the Spirit of Truth, 
who will bring to your recollection all things what- 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


299 


soever I have told you, and who will abide with 
you for ever.’ 

“ Oh ! mother, what language can be stronger ? 
how can words express more clearly the designs of 
Christ in the establishment of a churchy the author- 
ity he did confer upon the apostles and their suc- 
cessors, and his promising to be always with them ? 

“How can men who set at defiance her au- 
thorUy — these self-styled teachers^ without anything 
to substantiate so sacred a claim — how can they 
presume to teach men the way of salvation ? and 
how dare you peril your salvation by remaining 
out of her holy communion ? You say I am un- 
charitable. Mother, that is the flimsiest of all ex- 
cuses. Was there not but om ark of the covenant ? 
but one holy of holies? What did it avail the 
heathen nations of the earth, to say to the Jews 
that they were uncharitable ? Did it prevent their 
gods from falling down before the true ark of the 
covenant ? was not Dagon broke in pieces before 
it ? Was there not but one ark of safety in the del- 
uge? Were any saved who refused to enter it? God 
destroyed the whole world ; will any one presume 
to say that He was uncharitable ? 

“ Mother, can you think that I wish to delude 
you ? Do not, like Felix, believe and tremble ; 
but seek first the kingdom of God and His justice, 
and all these things shall be added unto you.” 

“ Oh I Mary, do not say any more,” said Mrs. 


300 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


Heyward; “some other time let us talk about 
it.” 

“ Mother, I should die so much happier if I 
could see you firmly resolved, without fear, to fol- 
low your convictions of right,” said Mary, fixing 
on her mother a look full of love. “Father, thy 
will be done,” she murmured to herself ; “ I leave 
all things with thee.” 

A servant entered the room to say that a yaung 
lady wished to come up to see Miss Mary. 

“ Did she not give her name ? ” Mary asked. 

“ She said she was a lady whom you had known 
in Rome. I disremember her name, miss.” 

“ Ask her to walk up stairs,” said Mary ; and 
her pale cheek flushed, and her eyes glistened with 
pleasure. As Lizzie Maitland entered the room 
and wound her arms around her sick friend, she 
was shocked (though she strove to hide her feel- 
ings) to see how wasted Mary had become. 

Mary presented Lizzie to her mother ; but Mrs. 
Heyward was so agitated by their previous conver- 
sation, that she soon left the room, leaving the 
young girls alone. Of course there was much to say. 

Lizzie inquired for the Ellicotts; but she saw 
that Mary was very much fatigued, and she en- 
treated her to lie down. 

“I will,” said Mary, “but do not leave me, 
Lizzie. I have much to say to you, and I feel that 
my time is very limited. Lizzie’s eyes flUed with 


LIZZIE MAITLAKD. 


301 


tears. Mary pressed her hand, and, when she 
reached her bed, she said, looking affectionately 
at her : 

“ Do not, Lizzie, let me see any such weakness 
in yoxi. I rely on your firmness. I have all I can 
do to bear up under the agitation that mamma’s dis- 
tress occasions me ; and Charles, poor Charles ! I 
wish he could be more composed. I hope you will 
come daily to see me while you remain in the city ; 
and if you could prolong your stay with me, it 
would be a great comfort. I shall not need it long. 
But I forget that your mother requires your con- 
stant care.” 

“ Oh, thank God for it,” Lizzie replied ; “ my 
dear mother’s health is much improved. I wish 
your journey had done you as much good.” 

“ Hush, Lizzie ; mine was a greater benefit to 
me. Did I not obtain more than the restoration 
of my bodily health, the health of my soul ? Thank 
God for me, Lizzie, that I have no will but his. I 
cannot tell the peace that fills my soul. I fancied 
that I was making a great sacrifice for conscience’s 
sake. Oh ! Lizzie, what a trifimg thing it appears 
to me now. All the suffering we can endure in 
this life is nothing, compared with the joys that 
flow from the presence of God. Nothing would 
induce me to give up this blessed hope — ^this peace 
that truly comes from Him — ^to be restored to 
health and the world without it. No, Lizzie, I al- 
26 


802 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


most long to be gone. But for the desire I have 
in all things to submit my will to that of my 
Heavenly Father, I could feel so. I would like to 
see Father Bailey, and receive Holy Communion 
once more from his hand.” 

“ He will be most happy to come to see you,” said 
Lizzie. “ He would have come with me, but thought 
it advisable to wait, until he ascertained whether 
his visit would be acceptable to your parents.” 

“ My father has at last given his consent that I 
shall see any priest that I desire ; and I have had 
that consolation, and oh ! many others,” said she, 
closing her eyes while a heavenly smile passed over 
her countenance. She remained silent for some 
time. “ God’s ways are not as our ways,” said she, 
at length opening her eyes. “ I have desired so 
earnestly the conversion of my friends, that I fear 
I have sometimes been guilty of impatience and 
want of resignation. . You must assist me by your 
prayers, dear Lizzie. My work is almost done. I 
can leave my friends — ^yes, all in the hands of my 
Father, who orders all things wisely. For a time, 
my anxiety for their conversion almost disturbed 
my peace. 

“Oh! Lizzie, how many ways our adversary 
takes to distract us, and prevent us from becoming 
perfectly resigned and obedient to God’s will ! He 
knows that if he can make us do our own will, and 
think that it is God’s service, our destruction is 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


803 


sealed. He knows how surely pride and self-will 
will transform angels into demons like himself. I 
used to disturb myself with such questions as these 
(when I looked about in the circle of my friends, 
and saw them apparently busied with good works, 
and, as I really hoped and believed, from a sincere 
motive of love to God) ; will they not be saved, 
though out of the Catholic church ? but now I feel 
that with questions such as these I have nothing 
whatever to do. I am not appointed a judge. 
God is their Father as well as mine. For their evil 
deeds He will surely punish them ; and no aspi- 
ration for good will be lost with Him. He 
knows what graces they reject, how much real 
light they despise, and how much they follow self- 
wiU, I am bound to live by the light he has vouch- 
safed to me, and to obtain my salvation on the 
conditions which He has annexed ; and Oh ! Lizzie, 
I do not dare to peril my eternal welfare, by at- 
tempting to receive any of the sacraments out of 
the channel through which He has appointed them 
to flow. The humble, and the sincere^ and the in- 
vincibly ignorant may receive some graces, even 
out of the true church. God may, and often does, 
vouchsafe such mercies to their love to Him ; but 
Oh ! think of what they might have, if all their 
fervor were rightly directed. Sincerity is not 
enough to secure salvation ; for a man may be sin- 
cerely in error ; but it will not bring him to ulti- 


304 


TJZZTTg MAITLAND. 


mate happiness, any more than the traveller can 
arrive at his destination by following a wrong road, 
all the time sincerely believing himself to be right. 
If his obstinacy prevent him from taking the advice 
of those who would put him in the right path, then 
he must be for ever astray, and take the conse- 
quences of his folly. And even if his humility leads 
him at length to return to the right path, think of 
all the precious time wasted, and the useless and 
harassing toil of wandering in the bogs and quick- 
sands of error, in danger every moment of making 
some fatal misstep that may be irrevocable. 

“ hTo doubt many at the time of the flood had a 
sincere intention of saving themselves, and un- 
doubtedly sincerely believed that many another 
vessel was just as good as the ark ISToah had made, 
and which he warned them God had provided. 
Lizzie, does it not seem like a type of the true 
church ? They did not believe that all would 
perish who were not within that vessel, within 
whose shelter, he proclaimed to them, only could 
be found salvation. They thought then, as now, 
that there were many good people out of the ark, 
and that Noah was arrogant and uncharitable. 
But, Lizzie, with all this I have nothing to do. I pray 
God to be merciful to all those I love, and who are 
in error, and bring them into his light in his own 
good time,” said Mary fervently, “ and I thank him 
that I have learned to ti’ust and wait his pleasure. 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


305 


“ Lizzie, I am in earnest, my dear girl ; I would 
like to have you remain with me for a while. Poor 
mamma will soon get attached to you ; she will love 
you for my sake and for your own, and I think it 
will console her when I am gone; and besides, 
dearest, it will be a great comfort for me to have a 
Catholic near me, when I so much need their 
presence as I do now. I do not wish to pain my 
friends by saying that ; but even you, because you 
have not been deprived of Catholic society, cannot 
appreciate fully the yearning I feel for that perfect 
interchange of thought and sentiment. Mamma 
would be hurt if she thought that I could prefer 
any body’s society to hers ; and I do not, only in 
1 this one thing, which she cannot understand. She 
; complains sometimes that I am estranged from my 
i friends since I became a Catholic. Dear Lizzie, 
how unjust is this reproach you know ; but there 
: has been such a new life opened to my astonished 
gaze. It is like the change from a bit of smoked 
t glass, that presented objects dim, blackened, and 
I oftentimes distorted, to the clear, steady gaze of my 
i own eyes, unimpeded by any perplexing medium.” 

Mary paused, and Lizzie did not disturb her, 
but allowed her to remain quiet for some time. 
At length when she opened her eyes, and turned 
them towards Lizzie, she asked — 

! “ Is there any thing that I can do for you, Mary ? 

' any body else that you would hke to see ? ” 

26 * 


306 


LIZZIE MAITLAOT). 


“ Yes, Lizzie, now that you remind (he, I would 
be very much obliged to you if you would deliver 
some little packages for me. You will find them 
in that little cabinet ; they are directed as I wish 
them bestowed — they are for the Sisters of the 
Hospital and at the Orphan Asylum. I wish the 
prayers of the Sisters and the children for myself 
and for my parents — and this rosary that I have 
used so much, I wish you to take, dear Lizzie. I 
You will find several little packages besides, take j 
them all, Lizzie, and distribute them. I cannot say | 
one word of all this to my poor mother, and I be- | 
lieve God has sent you here,” said she, looking 
fondly at her. “ So many blessings ! so many bless- ' 
ings! how can I ever be thankful enough for ' 
them ? ” said Mary, closing her eyes again, and 
resting her head wearily on her pillow. 

“ Mary, had you not better sleep for a little i 
while ? I will sit beside you, dearest.” ; 

“Ho, thank you,” Mary replied, “but if you | 
are not too much fatigued, I would like to have 
you read to me while I rest a little.” ! 

“ What would you wish to hear, Mary ? ” | 

“ The Litany for a happy death,” she said, | 
“ and some of those beautiful meditations on the 
passion of Jesus Christ from St. Liguori.” 

Lizzie began, and read in a low, sweet tone the 
touching picture of the agony in the garden, the 
crowning with thorns, and all the cruel sufferings 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


307 


of our crucjified Redeemer on the cross, until tears 
choked her utterance, and she paused a moment 
ere she could proceed. 

“ O ! infinite love ! O ! Jesus, thou hast died for 
the love of me ! ” murmured Mary. “ My dear 
Redeemer, receive me a sinner, who, with great sor- 
row for ever having ofiended thee, desires and sighs 
to love thee. Oh ! most sorrowful Mother, obtain 
for me the grace to love your Son, and to will 
nothing hut what God wills ! My Jesus is all to 
me, and I will he all to Him, neither life nor death 
! shall separate me from my Jesus ! ” 

Mrs. Heyward returned to the room, and seeing 
Mary lying so pale, she feared that she had already 
had too much excitement, and besought her to re- 
frain from any further conversation. 

Lizzie took her leave, promising to return the 
i next morning with Father Bailey. Mary whis- 
pered to her to come early, and to inform him that 
she desired to receive Holy Communion. 

Mr. Maitland was detained some time in Hew 
York on business, and Lizzie had daily opportuni- 
! ties to visit her sick friend. She could j^erceive 
her growing weaker every day, and yet her poor 
i mother obstinately closed her eyes and refused to 
believe that she would not revive with the ap- 
‘ proach of pleasant weather. It was sad to see her 
thus deceiving herself, and to hear her making 


308 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


arrangements to travel with her dying daughter 
when the summer should come. 

Lizzie strove to cheer her, but did not attempt 
the ungracious task of undeceiving her. 

Mrs. Elhcott was almost constantly beside 
Mary, and was untiring in her efforts to minister 
to the comforts of the invalid. She had a more 
difficult task to console her own son. They mourn 
without hope who do not receive their chastise- 
ment as from the hand of a father. Poor Charles ! 
it was his first grief, the first disappointment that 
he had known, and he gave himself up to despair. 

Mr. Heyward’s stem heart was melted to ten- 
derness, and he hung over his daughter with an 
expression of anguish that was sad to behold. 

Father Bailey had returned to his parish, and 
Edward had gone to Boston. 

Mrs. Maitland was very much better, and the 
faithful Bridget watched over her, and Lizzie had 
nothing to prevent her from devoting herself to 
Mary. 




CHAPTER XXIII. 

As Lizzie entered Mrs. Heyward’s drawing-room 
one morning, she was surprised and distressed to 
find her sitting on the sofa sobbing violently, and 
another lady close beside her talking in a loud and 
earnest manner, apparently either administering 
consolation or reproof, she could not clearly dis- 
tinguish for which it was intended. 

“ I tell you, Catharine, you are deceiving your- 
self, and crying peace when there is no peace. 
Mary is growing rapidly worse, and you must make 
up your mind to submit to the will of God. Show 
some fortitude, and bear up against trouble more 
like a Christian. It is your duty to warn your 
child of her situation, and let her make her peace 
with God while there is yet time, and not let her 
die in this delusion.” 

“ Oh ! I cannot believe that Mary is going to 
die ! ” sobbed the unhappy mother, “ and I could 
never tell her such a thing ; she is prepared to die,” 


310 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


continued she, taking her handkerchief from her 
eyes and looking earnestly at her sister-in-law, for 
such she was — “ there can he no better Christian.” 

“ Catharine Heyward, I am astonished at your 
weakness,” said her monitor ; “ how dare you, a 
professing Christian and a member of the Orthodox 
Church, say any one is prepared to die who is 
given over to the dreadful errors and wicked snares 
of Poi:)ery. Your cliild will go to Hell if you do 
not warn her, and if you will not, I must do so — I 
cannot see my brother’s child about to sink into 
perdition and not lift my voice to save her. I have 
given my testimony for the truth too often to be 
daunted now by a few tears ; it is of too much im- 
portance, a human soul is of too much consequence 
to be left to perish in the errors of the Homish 
superstitions. I must see Mary and talk to her 
plainly, and free my conscience of this heavy load 
of responsibility — I must convert her before she 
dies.” 

“ Oh ! do not — do not say any thing to her 
that mil agitate her. I cannot consent to have 
her disturbed ; her father has had all the ministers 
here, to see her and converse with her, and if they 
could not influence her opinions, what good can 
you do ? I cannot allow it,” and she laid her 
hands upon her to detain her ; but Mrs. Stephens 
shook her oflT with a detennined air, and a pious 
resolution expressed in her countenance, to carry 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


311 


her point. She declared that she must do her duty, 
and labor, in season and out, to save souls. 

So saying, she left the room to go to Mary’s. 

Mrs. Stephens was a woman about forty-five or 
fifty, with the remains of former beauty — she was 
short, and rather inclining to he stout ; apparently 
she was very pious, and very fond of dress. She 
was a member of all sorts of associations for the 
relief of all sorts of abuses, a vociferous advocate 
of Temperance, and an active member of the Tract 
Society, and spent a good deal of her time hunting 
through the miserable districts of the city; but 
she was more flush of her advice and books to the 
poor, than of clothes, provisions, or money for their 
necessities. She spent a great deal of time lec- 
turing to the women of these neighborhoods, upon 
the propriety of cleanliness and tidiness, while the 
poor creatures, sick and discouraged, perhaps, and 
broken down by want and suffering, were in need 
of every thing, and actually had not the means to 
procure even the common necessaries of soap and 
water, and had no change of raiment. 

She generally contrived in her charitable er- 
rands to make it convenient to visit the Jew shops, 
and those places that had the reputation of selling 
at a low rate, to hunt up bargains, in the way of 
dress and finery, and consequently figured conspicu- 
ously in broad, cheap, German laces, and prided 
herself on her ability in securing great bargains. 


312 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


She was equally edifying at home, and scolded 
her husband, children, and servants, until the peace 
and comfort of the household was often seriously 
disturbed ; she was firmly persuaded in her own 
mind, that she was about her Master’s business, and 
that very morning, after a tumultuous scene in the 
kitchen, and with the sequel of which she had fa^ 
vored them at the breakfast table, she had declared 
to her husband and children, that she had so far 
accomplished her work, as to be perfectly and en- 
tirely resigned to the will of her Heavenly Father, 
and had no ties to earth, and was ready to depart 
at any moment it should please her Master to call 
her home. Her husband made no reply, but he 
looked as if he could easily cultivate the grace of 
resignation whenever the call might come. 

She had exhibited every symptom of pious hor- 
ror when she heard of Mary’s dreadful apostasy, 
and had expressed herself in no measured terms to 
her brother, on the subject, and urged him on to 
acts of severity towards the poor girl. She said 
openly, that if it were a daughter of hers, she 
should not hesitate to disown her. 

Mary had pretty generally contrived to evade 
open controversy with her aunt, but now, it seems, 
she had resolved upon relieving her conscience, and 
assumed, without any hesitation or scruple, the 
oflice of teacher. 

After regulating her own family affairs in the 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


313 


pleasant and profitable manner we have described, 
she set off to one of her districts, and having 
soundly rated the poor discouraged wife of a 
drunken, miserable fellow, and the mother of five 
or six naked, half-starved children, for her want of 
thrift and foresight, and untidiness, and bad man- 
agement generally^ and particularly in keeping a 
set of idle, worthless children around her — “ Why 
did not she put them out to work, and make them 
earn their own living, not keep them at home doing 
nothing, and she living on charity ; it was a shame 
to her,” &c., &c. Mrs. Stephens scolded the poor, 
dejected, broken-spirited creature, earnestly and 
soundly, all the while sincepely believing it would 
be much better for her to dispose of her children 
as she recommended ; but like many another ill- 
judging person, she did not stop to reflect that it 
is much easier to ask such questions, and give such 
advice, and point out such faults, than to obtain 
the situations she proposed, or the means of live- 
lihood for such a set of helpless, destitute chil- 
dren. She herself would have been among the last 
to receive one of them into her own house, and 
she forgot that others might feel the same repug- 
nance. 

After having accomplished these charitable 
deeds, in a very self-satisfied frame of mind, she 
had proceeded to her brother’s house, and had met 
.Mrs. Heyward, and announced to her, in this piti- 
27 


314 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


less fashion, what she considered Mary’s condition, ; 
for this world, and the next. i 

Lizzie used every effort to console Mrs. Hey- I 
ward, but she was too anxious on Mary’s account, 
to listen, and besought her to follow Mrs. Stephens 
to Mary’s chamber, and attempt to dissuade her 
from carrying out her intentions. Lizzie was de- 
lighted to find Mrs. Ellicott there before her, and 
she hoped, with her aid, to avert from Mary a 
scene that must prove so disagreeable, to say the 
least ; but Mrs. Stephens was not to be so easily 
baffled, for she had come thither to take up her 
testimony against Popery, and to warn Mary to 
“ flee from the wi'ath fo come.” 

“ How are you this morning, my poor, dear 
niece ? ” said she, going up to her and taking one 
of her delicate hands within her grasp, and as- 
suming the while that lugubrious manner that 
some persons invariably put on in the presence of 
the sick, and which is so well calculated to depress 
a nervous patient. 

“ Oh ! she is quite bright — much better this fine 
bracing morning,” Mrs. Ellicott said, cheerfully, 
before Mary had time to reply ; “ she wiU soon be 
able to make poor Charles happy, by appointing 
her wedding day.” 

Though her words and tone were so hopeful, a 
close observer could have discovered that it was 
done to avert the consequences of the doleful man- 


LIZZIE aiAITLAND, 


315 


ner of Mrs. Stephens, and her anxious and tender 
look, as she hovered over her beloved Mary, con- 
tradicted her word^ ; but Mrs. Stephens was not a 
close observer, nor a delicate-minded woman, and 
had none of the genuine womanly tact, that ena- 
bled Mrs. Ellicott to ward off many a rough, sting- 
ing remark of her self-satisfied relative. 

“ Cousin Ellicott, I am astonished at your levity 
this morning ; it would much better become your 
years and Mary’s solemn situation if you utter the 
truth to her, and by serious conversation and 
directing her attention to the salvation of her soul, 
enable her to spend her last days in preparing for 
eternity.” 

She uttered this with a severe look and tone of 
reproof to Mrs. Ellicott — then turning to Mary she 
said, “ I have come on purpose, my dear niece, to 
see you, in the hope that I may say something to 
convince you of the fatal errors in which you are 
about to die. I am sure that you know I love you, 
and that what I say is dictated by the most dis- 
interested motive, to warn you of the danger of 
continuing to adhere to a superstition that will ruin 
your soul.” 

“ I am much obliged to you, my dear aunt,” 
Mary replied mildly, “ but I would rather decline 
anymore controversy on the subject of my religion, 
from which I derive now my only consolation.” 

“Religion! religion!” interrupted Mrs. Ste- 


316 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


phens in pious horror, “ do not call it religion ; it is 
idolatry and image worship, and your prayers to 
saints and angels and to the Virgin Mary never are 
going to save your soul, and all the money you can 
pay to your priests will not pardon one sin.” 

“ You are quite right, I agree with you per- 
fectly, aunt,” said Mary smiling — “ money certainly 
never will obtain the pardon of one sin ! ” 

“ But you cannot believe that money is given 
to the priest to obtain the pardon of sin ? ” said 
Lizzie, trying to divert the good lady’s attention 
from Mary. 

“ Certainly I do,” she replied, almost fiercely, 
turning to Lizzie — “ do not the priests sell indul- 
gences and grant liberty to commit sin, and don’t 
you Catholics pay your priests every time you go 
to confession for pardoning your sins ? ” 

“ By no means, my dear madam, I assure you 
no such thing could ever be done with the sanction 
of the church — and will you do me the favor to 
teU me what you understand by an indulgence ? ” 

“ Why a permission to commit sin, of course,” 
said Mrs. Stephens. 

“I am surprised, my dear madam, that any- 
body can believe so absurd a thing as that any priest 
could forgive a future sin — forgiveness implies re- 
pentance, and every Catholic knows that Christ 
himself could not forgive the sinner without repent- 
ance, An indulgence can never be a permission to 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


817 


commit sin, it is only a remission of a part of the 
temporal punishment due to sin that has been sin- 
cerely repented of and forgiven. You sometimes 
punish your child, after you have forgiven him ; you 
inflict some slight chastisement and remit the rest 
in consequence of his earnest sorrow and sincere 
resolution of future amendment, and because you 
are sensible that justice requires that some notice 
should be taken of the breach of your commands. 
An indulgence does not include the pardon of any 
sin at all^ little or grea% pas% present^ or to come, 
and has nothing to do with the eternal punishment 
due to it.” 

“ I suppose, young woman, you don’t pretend 
to tell me that indulgences have never been sold. 
I h^ve read and know enough of the abominable 
practices and persecutions of the Romish Church 
before you were born, and I am too old to be told 
by you that such things are not so.” 

“ Excuse me, madam,” said Lizzie respectfully, 
“ I do not intend to say any thing rudely, but I do 
feel bound to say that the Catholic Church holds 
that it would be a sacrilegious crime in any person 
whatsoever to he concerned in buying or selling them^ 
and I am far from denying that indulgences have 
ever been sold ; there is nothing so sacred that the 
avarice of man has not put up for sale. Christ 
himself was sold for thirty pieces of silver — and in 
English newspapers we find advertisements about 
27 * 


318 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


buying and selling benefices with tbe cure of souis 
annexed to them, in the Protestant Episcopal 
Church. I do again most solemnly deny that the 
Catholic Church ever sanctioned such a wicked 
practice. 

“ The Church cannot be responsible for all that 
bad Catholics do, it is not by her teachings or 
authority it is in spite of her holy counsels that 
wicked acts are committed by her wandering chil- 
dren. 

“ It would be unjust and cruel to say that a 
wicked son committed excesses and crimes in con- 
sequence of a good, pious mother’s teachings.” 

“ You will not undertake to defend the Romish 
Church, I suppose, from the charge of bigotry and 
superstition, and persecutions. Look how Catholics 
have always persecuted Protestants and shed their 
blood fi’om the very first ages. Didn’t the Pope 
shut them up in the Catacombs, and bury them 
alive in caverns, and have them torn to pieces by 
wild beasts, and cast to the lions for reading their 
Bibles — and isn’t he the Antichrist ? ” said the good 
lady, her zeal outstripping her discretion and right 
recollection of the early history of the Christian 
Church. “You won’t deny aU these persecutions, 
I presume ? ” 

“ Why, Aunt Sallie,” said Mary, smiling, “ you 
surely are not going to make the Catholic Church 
responsible for all the cruelties and excesses com- 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


319 


mitted by the Pagan Emperors? It would be a 
difficult task certainly to make a good Catholic of 
Nero.” 

“ You forget, madam,” interposed Lizzie, “ that 
the name of Protestant was not known until nearly 
twelve hundred years after the dates to which you 
have alluded.” 

Mrs. Stephens colored violently, and looked 
offended ; she had herself met with a repulse where 
she intended to make a vigorous assault. 

“ For fifteen hundred years there was no other 
Christian religion on the face of the earth, and for 
twelve hundred years you will admit there had been 
a Pope at Rome as the acknowledged head of the 
Church. What became of the promises of Christ 
all this while to those fi^r whom he had died ? did 
he suffer them to remain in a false religion ? 

“ Who was it but the Pope that sent Catholic 
monks to convert England from Paganism? and 
for nine hundred years England contmued pros- 
perous and happy in this religion. And if the 
Protestant is the true religion of Christ, why does 
he suffer it to be divided into so many sects, to be 
so at variance with itself? And why does he suffer 
four-fifths of the whole Christian world to remain 
steadfast in the old religion which his Apostles es- 
tablished, and in testimony of the truth of which 
his holy martyrs shed their blood so freely ? ” 

“ If it was the true religion once it cannot be 


320 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


now, when it is so full of corruptions, and when her 
priests won’t let the people read the Bible,” said 
Mrs. Stephens. 

“ As to reading the Bible,” replied Lizzie, “ who 
was it but the Pope or ‘ Antichrist,’ as you call 
him, that preserved and handed down the Bible ? 
There was a long time after the death of Christ 
before the Gospel was published in its present form 
— ^it was preached for about three hundred years be- 
fore the written Gospel was used as a guide to. the 
Christian Churches. 

“ There were other Gospels written by the early I 
disciples besides those of Matthew, Mark, Luke and Ij 
John ; a long time elapsed after the death of their ' 
authors before they were laid before a council of i 
the Catholic Church for -it to determine which 
were genuine^ which were not. It decided to re- 
tain these four and reject the others, and it is not j 
at all to the reading of the Holy Scriptures for 
purposes of devotion, that the Church objects, but 
to the private interpretation — a reliance of each i 
man on his own power to understand and interpret 
for himself and whence have sprung up all these 
endless heresies and schisms.” 

“ I did not come here, young woman, to hold a 
religious discussion with you., I came to warn my 
niece of her situation, and to try to turn her from 
the error of her ways; but if she will not hear me, 


LIZZIE MAITLAKD. 


321 


I have done my duty, and must leave her to perish 
m her ignorance.” 

“I am very much obliged to you, my dear 
aunt, for your kind intentions,” said Mary, holding 
out her hand to Mrs. Stephens, “ but I think it will 
do no good to renew this matter between us — ^my 
mind cannot be shaken on this subject. I have 
already found the peace which satisfies my soul and 
gives me hope of eternal rest.” 

Mrs. Stephens rose to depart, she kissed Mary, 
and bowing very stiffly to Mrs. EUicott and Lizzie, 
she left the room. 

Mrs. Ellicott also took her leave soon after, tell- 
ing Mary that she left her in such good and careful 
hands that she was almost afraid that she should 
not be regretted. 

Mary kissed her tenderly and thanked her for 
all her devotion and kindness, and assured her she 
had no occasion to feel jealous. 

The day was occupied in reading and conversa- 
tion, but Mary seemed to Lizzie to be exhausted 
by the excitement of the morning, and she slept 
while Lizzie sat beside her and watched her ten- 
derly as a sister. Mrs. Heyward was in the habit 
of leaving the two girls together. Her mother’s 
instinct had seemed to penetrate her daughter’s 
secret, and she kindly indulged her. 

“ How kind you are, my dear Lizzie,” said 
Mary, awaking from her sleep, “ I cannot tell you 


322 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


what a consolation yonr presence has been to me — | 
put hack the curtains and place those lovely flowers ' 
beside me, and come and sit near me — how glori- ' 
ous the sunset is — the earth is beautiful and fair, | 
but heaven is more glorious. ! 

“ You have learned, dear Lizzie, to forget your- ’ 
self for others — you are humble, patient and gen- | 
tie. God has prepared you for the battle of life, : 
trust Him always as you do now. He will comfort 
and sustain you — pray for me, and do not forget me 
when I am gone. Wear this for my sake,” and ! 
she drew from beneath her pillow a chain of ex- 
quisite workmanship, to which was attached a 
small golden crucifix, and putting it around Lizzie’s 
neck, she kissed her more tenderly than usual. 
Lizzie pressed her lips reverently upon the crucifix 
and then upon Mary’s pale brow. 

“ Recite for me once more the litany for a good 
death.” Lizzie did as she was desired, and restrain- 
ed her emotions to the end. 

“ I thank you again for all your kindness and ^ 
love ; it will be pleasant for you to remember the | 
consolations you have brought to my sick chamber. , 
Come early to-morrow morning, dearest,” said she j 
as Lizzie rose to bid her adieu for the evening. I 

Lizzie took a few steps towards the door, then ! 
turning back, as if by one of those strange presenti- 
ments that we have sometimes, she stood irresolute 
for a second. Mary turned her dark lustrous eyes 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


323 


ftill upon her, and Lizzie felt as if light ik)ni heaven 
shone through them. She smiled as Lizzie stood 
still regarding her, then reached out her hand — 
Lizzie went forward, and kneeling down by the 
bedside, she laid the thin, fair hand upon her head 
and whispered — “Ask God to bless me, dear 
sister ! ” then arose, and without another word left 
the room. 




CHAPTER XXIY. i 

“How is Miss Mary this morning, Xorah?” said j 
Lizzie, as that faithful creature opened the door 
for her. 

“ Shure it is all well with her ; she has gone 
home at last ! ” 

“Oh! Xorah,” Lizzie exclaimed wildly, and 
clutching her arm, “ Oh ! Xorah, you do not mean 
that she is dead ? ” and Lizzie burst into a flood of 
tears. 

“ Miss Lizzie, darling, it is not for Miss Mary 
that ye’re weeping. God sent his angels to bear 
her spirit away, and she fell asleep in these old 
arms, as sweetly as when a little child I hushed her 
to rest, and prayed the Blessed Virgin and her 
guardian angel to obtain these same blessings for 
her, and bring her home to the fold of the Good 
Shepherd at last ; and will I weep now when God 
heard my prayer? It is only for the living we 
must mourn. 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


825 


“ My poor mistress, God comfort her, is sick in 
her bed, and master looks like one broken-hearted, 
and Mr. Charles takes on like one left desolate, 
and shure he is that same ; but my sweet darling 
was not for the Hkes of him, widout God and wid- 
out grace in the world. He was never good 
enough for her — ” 

“Hush, Norah, hush,” said Lizzie; “Mary 
loved him, and that ought to make you have pa- 
tience with him now.” 

“ He loved her. Miss Lizzie, and my own dar- 
ling could never bear to see any body grieving, 
and she would have married him to try to save his 
soul : but. Miss Lizzie, she knew well enough that 
no bridal-day would ever be hers ; from the first 
day when I found her lying so pale and feeble, and 
the blood-streaks on her handkerchief, I knew and 
she knew that her days were few. They were sad 
times in the house them days. Master wouldn’t 
hear any reason, and my darling got httle rest, wid 
all their minister men, and the talkings and preach- 
ments she heard, and master’s stern looks, and the 
dull miserable days she spent, and the many nights 
she lay coughing and sleepless, until my old heart 
was fit to break at the blindness that could not see 
how my darling was wasting away, and not a mur- 
mur nor a word of complaint out of her sweet 
mouth the whilst.” 

“ ‘ It is to try my faith, Horah dear,’ she would 
28 


826 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


say, ‘and besides you do not know the sweet com- 
fort God gives me to sustain my feeble spirit.’ 

“ Oh ! Miss Lizzie,” continued Norah, wiping 
away the tear that would trickle down in spite of 
her resolutions to the contrary, “ Oh ! Miss Lizzie, 
I have watched her and loved her from her cradle, 
and nobody knows better than me how good and 
how gentle she was, and niver a day passed over 
my old head that I did not pray for her conver- 
sion ; and wasn’t that the blessed day to my heart, 
when I heard from her own lips that she had the 
courage to give up all the world, to show her love 
for the true church ? ” 

“Tell me, N'orah,” Lizzie said, “who was with 
her when she died ? ” 

“ She grew worse. Miss Lizzie, soon after you 
left, and asked me to send for her parish priest, 
good Father Delaney. He came directly, and she 
saw him, and he gave her the blessed consolation 
that our church has for her dying children ; and 
when I came back to her again. Oh ! Miss Lizzie, 
it seemed as if an angel stretched out its hands to 
me ; the light in her eyes could only come from 
above. 

“ It would have melted the heart out of your 
body to hear her speaking to her father, and he 
bowed his head down upon his hands and wailed 
aloud like a stricken child — the proud, stem man — 
it was so hard to give back the jewel God had lent 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


327 


him ; and when I lighted the blessed candles and 
placed them beside her, he said no word agin my 
doin it ; and she lies now, Miss Lizzie, like a Chris- 
tian, wid the blessed sign of her redemption, the 
holy cross, lying on her breast, in her clasped 
hands. Come, IVIiss, let’s go to her.” 

And ISTorah led the way to Mary’s chamber. 

She was lying on a couch which Norah’s care- 
ful hands had prepared, with the tenderness of a 
mother. Flowers were strewed around her, and 
the placid expression of the features made it ap- 
pear more like the beautiful repose of life and 
health, than the first “ dark day of nothingness ” 
for the frail tenement that had enshrined the holy 
spirit. 

Lizzie entered the chamber. She gazed for a 
few moments on the features so beloved, and so 
lovely in death, and, stooping down, she pressed 
her lips upon the pale brow. She started, as if 
just then awakening to a reality of the scene. She 
knelt beside her, and her lips moved in prayer. 
The solemn stillness was broken only by the tick- 
ing of the clock on the mantel, a beautiful gift from 
Charles to Mary. Lizzie was roused at last and 
rose to her feet ; she gazed around the room , 
the empty chair, and one little slipper that had 
been overlooked resting on the cushion beside it, 
first caught her eye. The books she had read to 
Mary — the pictures they had both admired — every 


328 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


article awakened some remembrance that, if it 
were not painful, was so nearly allied to the painful 
as scarcely to be distinguishable from it. But 
when she turned again, and her eyes rested on 
Mary’s lovely countenance, so calm and placid, and 
thought of all the cares and sorrows, disappoint- , 
ments and struggles that she had escaped, and re- 
membered the peacefulness of her last days, her | 
humble piety, her unwavering faith, she felt that 
Mary had made a blessed exchange. The thought 
of the promise she had made to Mary to endeavor 
to console her mother, flashed across her mind, 
and, imprinting another kiss upon her cold fore- 
head, she left the room to seek Mrs. Heyward. 

She, poor woman, was stricken down as if the 
blow had been entirely unexpected, and gave her- 
self up to such an agony of grief, that her tears re- 
fused to flow. 

Mrs. Ellicott was already there, and welcomed 
Lizzie’s coming, in the hope that her presence 
might produce some favorable change. 

Mrs. Heyward threw herself upon her neck and 
groaned heavily ; but no tears relieved her suf- 
fering. Lizzie bathed her temples and endeavored 
to soothe her ; and after a time, when her efibrts 
seemed to be crowned with some success, she ven- 
tured to ask her to visit Mary’s chamber with her. 

Mrs. Heyward consented, and Lizzie led her to 
the couch, and for a time she was almost terrified 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


329 


at the step she had ventured to take. Such heavy 
moans burst forth, as if her overcharged heart were 
breaking. 

Norah, who had followed, led her mistress to 
the chair upon which Mary’s form had so often re- 
clined ; and as she did so Lizzie stooped, and, 
taking up the little slipper, she laid it gently on 
Mrs. Heyward’s knee. 

She took it in her hand and gazed upon it, and 
Lizzie had the happiness to see a flood of tears gush 
forth over this inanimate object, that had touched 
a chord when all else had failed. 

Lizzie allowed her tears to flow unrestrainedly, 
and then gently led her back to her own chamber, 
and persuaded her to lie down ; and Norah pre- 
pared a composing draught, and she fell into a 
gentle sleep. 

While Lizzie watched beside her afflicted friend, 
she could hear the slow and measured tread of Mr. 
Heyward, as he paced backward and forward 
through the apartment beneath. 

To attend to some request of Mrs. Ellicott’s, 
she was obliged to pass through the room where 
Mr. Heyward kept his sad vigil. Lizzie paused 
and hesitated to enter. As she gazed on his sunken 
features and stricken form, his head was bent low 
on his breast, and his stern brow bore the impress 
of the deep grief that overwhelmed him. The 


330 


TJ7ZTT5 MAITLAND. 


slight rustle of her dress attracted his attention. 

He paused in his walk and extended his hand to her. 

“ Young woman,” said he, “ you loved my 
daughter, and you brought comfort and consola- 
tion to her in her last days. For your kindness 
accept the thanks of a bereaved old man. 

“Yes,” murmured he, as if to himself, “be- 
reaved and stricken truly. The hand of God lies 
heavy upon me. I have toiled to amass wealth, to 
enrich her. She was my only child. Cold, stem, 
and imperious though I was, still she was my idol ; 
and God has stricken me at every point.” 

“Ah,” thought Lizzie, “what avails the iron j 
will of the poor creature against the designs and 
providence of Almighty God ? how in a moment 
our deepest and best-laid schemes are frustrated ! 

He lays His finger upon us, and we are blighted by 
disease ; or He stops the breath in our nostrils, and 
the puny creature is made to acknowledge his own 
weakness, as he grovels in anguish under the chas- 
tisement he knows to be so justly inflicted.” 

“ The hand that has stricken can heal ; and our 
holy religion teaches us that our afflictions come 
from our Father, and that He does not willingly 
aflS^ict His children,” said Lizzie timidly. 

“You do not know what you are saying, yonug 
girl,” he replied, “ when you talk to a father, be- 
reaved of his only child, of consolation. Nothing 
can heal a heart so desolated. Nothing,” he added 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


831 


again, as if unconsciously to himself, “ can restore 
my child, or give me hack the spring of my exist- 
ence. I have no longer an object to excite my 
energies. I am a broken-hearted old man. My 
pride can no longer sustain me. Where, oh ! 
where can I find strength to hear this heavy afflic- 
tion ? ” and deep sobs hurst from his overcharged 
bosom. 

“ Where your beloved child found grace and 
support in life, and consolation and happiness in the 
hour of her dissolution, in the bosom of the Catho- 
lic Church,” said Lizzie, approaching him ; “ it pro- 
vides for every hour — the darkest of affliction, the 
brightest of joy, and support and grace to hear us 
through the dark valley and its terrible shadows. 
Come, oh ! come, kneel at her altars ; taste the rich 
blessings which flow thence, and which for every 
moment of life furnish consolation and succor. 
Your child has gone before you ; come and seek 
what she found to sustain her in her dying hour. 
If it had been a delusion, in so solemn a moment it 
would have failed her. Come, when she has led 
the way, and when she still invites you from amid 
the shadowy hosts of witnesses that now encompass 
her ! ” 

Lizzie, in her earnestness, had approached Mr. 
Heyward and laid her hands upon his arm, and was 
gazing up into his face, with an earnestness that 
gave an expression almost of inspiration to her 


332 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


countenance, as her eyes met those of Mr. Hey- 
ward. 

He laid his hand upon her head, pushed hack 
the hair from her forehead, and, gazing inquiringly 
into her face, said : 

“ Tell me, child, tell me, what is this myste- 
rious influence that fills your young hearts, making 
them capable of sacrifices, filling them with high 
and generous impulses, and bringing its own re- 
ward of peace, such as I have never found, amid all 
the stern pride and rectitude of my life ? ” 

“ The grace of God flowing though the channel 
from which he has appointed that we should re- 
ceive them,” Lizzie replied. 

Mr. Heyward seemed for a moment to be im- 
pressed by the truth of the remark, and a strange 
softening and yielding of the features seemed as if 
for a moment a ray of the grace of which she 
spoke had found its way into his heart — then, as if 
moved by other motives, his countenance resumed 
its rigid expression, and he said with a deep sigh — 
“ Go now, my child, and leave a desolate man alone 
with his grief.” 

“God comfort you, sir,” said Lizzie as she 
moved to the door. 

Mr. Heyward gazed mournfully after her, and 
she heard him resume the same measured tread, 
and heavy moans again burst from his burdened 
breast. 

“ God give him grace to see and embrace the 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


333 


truth, and no longer to grasp a shadow, and con- 
sole him under this deep affliction ! ” murmured 
Lizzie as she hastened on her way homeward. 

It was a clear, bracing air, and Lizzie walked on ’ 
rapidly for the benefit of the exercise, her thoughts 
full of those she had just left. Mr. Heyward she 
earnestly hoped might be, not almost but altogether 
persuaded to accept the truth and lay aside his pre- 
judices ; and she thought how strong they must be, 
and how many difficulties must lie in the path of a 
self-'willed, opinionated man, accustomed to exer- 
cise almost despotic sway in his own household 
and in all his business affairs. She grieved deeply 
for poor Mrs. Heyward, now that she had lost the 
accustomed support of Mary’s stronger mind. She 
feared that her health would give way, and that 
she would sink beneath this affiiction, and she could 
not help contrasting in her own mind the habitual 
and gentle resignation of her own mother, and her 
unshaken reliance and faith in the hour of trial. 

As Lizzie walked rapidly onward, her thoughts 
thus preoccupied, she did not observe the pleasant 
smiling face advancing to meet her, nor the out- 
stretched hand, until the hearty and well-known 
voice close beside her exclaimed — 

“ Now may the Lord be praised for your safe 
return, and for all his mercies to us this day ; shure 
the sight of yees is good for a sore heart any 
time.” 


334 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


Lizzie looked up astonished, for beside her stood 
Thomas, the faithful friend of her childhood. She 
returned his greeting as cordially as it was given. 

“ And where did you come from so suddenly ? ” 
said Lizzie, “ and how did you leave all at Mait- 
landville ? ” 

“ Shure, Miss Lizzie, it was wearying for a sight 
of yees all once r^ore that brought me here — ^the 
maister wrote that I might come down to assist 
him, and I felt meself nothing loth to get an earlier 
sight of yees all.” 

“And Bridget in particular, I suppose ? ” said 
Lizzie laughing, for Thomas had been patiently wait- 
ing until such time as Bridget should feel that Mrs. 
Maitland’s health was sufficiently restored to enable 
her to dispense with her services to claim the 
promise to become mistress of his cottage. Thomas 
was not a very young or very romantic lover ; he 
was some years older than Bridget, but she did not 
seem to think that any objection, and the two had 
long been “promised” to each other, and it was more 
out of consideration for this that the promise to 
render assistance had probably been given by Mr. 
Maitland, than any great necessity he had felt him- 
self for Thomas’ services. 

“I saw the mistress, and she is looking far 
better nor when she wint abroad,” said Thomas — 
“ it was Bridget sent me to seek yees, for she said 
Miss Lizzie never knows whin to return when she 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


335 


goes to visit the sick, and so she bade me come to 
bring you home, and see that no harm befell you. 
And besides. Miss Lizzie, there is somebody there 
waiting to see you that I think you will be glad to 
meet once more.” 

“ Who is it, Thomas ? ” Lizzie asked quickly, 
her curiosity thoroughly aroused, and her desire to 
reach home so increased that she proposed taking 
the first omnibus. 

“ Bridget bade me not to tell ye, for she wanted 
to surprise ye a bit, but it is somebody that ye’U 
not be sorry to meet again.” 

Lizzie’s first thought was of Edward, and her 
heart beat faster, but she recollected that Thomas 
knew nothing of him, and she scarce could help the 
wish that it might prove to be as her first thought 
suggested, but she restrained her curiosity and was 
obliged to check her inquiries in regard to all at 
Maitlandville, for the rumble of the omnibus pre- 
vented any further conversation. 

She watched from the windows of the vehicle 
the ceaseless tide of human beings as they jostled 
and hurried past — ^her eyes glanced over the busy 
scene — ^the gay shops and gaudily dressed crowds 
who throng them, the eager faces of all, seemingly 
in pursuit of some desired end — what could it be ? 
different for all! Each one of that great multi- 
titude had his individual destiny to fulfil, and death 
to be the end of all. Her thoughts reverted to 


336 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


Mary — ^Death — what is it ? To the Christian, rest, 
rest from a toilsome pilgrimage — to him who has 
lived well, a joyful release — ^to him who has lived 
an evil life — oh God! the contemplation is too 
fearful — and she thought again of Mary, dear Mary 
gone home — ^her peaceful departure ; and she could 
not grieve for her death — she felt that there was 
still communion between them, more holy, more 
beautiful than ever, and she sorrowed that the poor 
bereaved parents were deprived of the comfort 
that the Catholic feels in the belief of this commu- 
nion of the departed, and that they assist us by 
their prayers. They are the blessed cloud of wit- 
nesses that “ encompass us,” and whose prayers and 
watchfulness keep us at every step. 

She was awakened from her musings by the 
stopping of the omnibus; she had reached their 
hotel, and in a few moments was locked in the em- 
brace of her cousin Fanny. 





CHAPTER XXV. 

It ‘was a charming September morning, and the 
soft sunlight stole in through the windows of the 
humble chapel at Maitlandville, mingling with the 
glimmering lights on the altar, and making them 
look faint in the pleasant simshine. A group of 
loving hearts were gathered around, breathing 
prayers for the happiness of the beloved couple, 
upon whom Father Bailey had just pronounced the 
nuptial benediction. 

Edward and Lizzie still knelt before him, their 
heads bowed down, as if impressed by the solem- 
nity of the sacrament. Edward’s manly face 
beamed with happiness, and Lizzie looked more 
lovely than ever, as her veU and white muslin 
dress floated about her graceful form. 

A tear shone in the mother’s eye, as she glanced 
fondly at her daughter. Mr. Maitland was close 
beside her, as he stood when he placed her hand in 
Edward’s, as if absorbed in the scene before him. 

29 


338 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


Fanny knelt apart, and her agitation showed what 
bitter memories had been awakened in her soul. 

At a little distance were an elderly couple, clad 
in deep mourning. The lady had drawn her veil 
over her face, and faint sobs occasionally broke 
forth. The gentleman gazed earnestly and sadly 
upon Lizzie, as if some painful memories were busy 
at his heart-strings ; his head was white, and his 
form bowed, more by sorrow than time ; but an 
expression of resignation and peacefulness now as- 
sumed the place of the once proud, stern look, that 
had characteiized Mr. Heyward’s countenance. 
Mary’s prayers had been answered, and her father 
and mother were now humble Catholics. 

Mrs. Heyward’s health had been very' delicate 
since her daughter’s death, and her husband had 
brought her to Maitlandville at the earnest solicita- 
tion of Mrs. Maitland and Lizzie, in the hopes that 
the change might benefit her. They were still 
lonely^ but no longer desolate, for they had found 
the consolations they had been promised, and the 
reward had been given to their fidelity to God. 

Kitty and Mickey O’Brien, and their family, 
Patrick Mahony and his, and others of their hum- 
ble friends were there, waiting to bestow their 
congratulations. Good old Mrs. Reed had passed 
away from this world, but some of her children 
and grandchildren had embraced the true faith, 


LIZZIE MAITLAIfD. 


339 


and were honored and respected members of the 
community where they dwelt. 

When the ceremony was over, her humble 
friends crowded around Lizzie at the door-way, for 
one last word, and every blessing Heaven has to 
bestow, was invoked upon her head, as the car- 
riage bore her away. 

Of our simple story httle remains to be told. — 
Dr. Singleton’s perseverance to the fair sex was at 
length rewarded, by obtaining the hand of a widow, 
charming of course — something past eighteen, it 
must be admitted, but intelligent, accomplished, 
and rich — an array of attractions which the doc- 
tor, notwithstanding his predilections in favor of 
extreme youth and beauty, found himself unable 
to resist. Under her judicious management, he 
now gets his coffee hot and strong, and has ihQ first 
of the good things himself, instead of the pittance 
formerly doled to him from his own larder. Jake 
flourishes with renewed lustre under such excellent 
auspices. 

During the prevalence of one of those frightful 
epidemics that ravaged our Southern cities, there 
fell one gentle victim, whose care and watchful 
kindness had relieved many a suffering and dying 
fellow-creature. Tender hands strewed with flow- 
ers, and hung fresh chaplets on the simple white 
stone cross, that marks the resting-place of Sister 
Mary Agnes. Thomas and Bridget have all the 


340 


LIZZIE MAITLAND. 


comfort and happiness in their little domicile, that 
their fidelity and excellence deserve. 

We wish we could say of Mrs. Ellicott, that 
she had courageously forsaken error, and followed 
the truth ; but we fear that she wiU rest content 
with the good-will of feUow-creatures. 

Alas! how many, with aU the amiable traits 
which render them so dear to the domestic circle, 
yet neglect to secure the salvation of their souls. 


THE END. 


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